


L'amour est un Oiseau Rebelle

by Wife_of_Bath



Series: Hetalia at the Opera [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wife_of_Bath/pseuds/Wife_of_Bath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on leave in Portugal, Lieutenant Arthur Kirkland meets an enigmatic, elegant artist who proceeds to turn his world upside down. Based off Georges Bizet's Carmen.   Gift fic for Coeurgryffondor on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

_“Now landsmen all, whoever you may be,_  
 _If you want to rise to the top of the tree,_  
 _If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,_  
 _Be careful to be guided by this golden rule —_  
 _Stick close to your desks and never go to sea,_  
 _And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navee!”_

Arthur huffed as he walked through the street, trying to get the irritating song out of his head.  As if it was not bad enough that his brothers dragged him to that ridiculous comic opera on his last night in London and loudly sang that song until his boat finally set sail.  Try as Arthur might, the overly cheerful melody refused to leave him.  No amount of humming did anything to change that.  When he returned home, he would give his brothers a great and angry lecture on what kind of entertainment they decided to bring him to.  Maybe they thought him too sensitive, but Arthur did not care.  He was a first lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Navy, the finest institution in the world, not something to be lampooned on stage.  He would be an admiral one day, a great one, and he would not get there by staying home and doing nothing.  No, he would work, strive, and prove he was worthy of the responsibilities given to him.  He wondered what his brothers would think.  Little Artie, an admiral, with a list of accomplishments beneath his name.  Maybe they would refuse to believe it, but it would be there, for everyone to see.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

A jolt from the side nearly sent Arthur tumbling.  His hat fell to the ground.  Recovering his footing, Arthur glared at the man who pushed him, a farmer pulling a large cart of produce.  “I am sorry, _senhor_!” the man shouted as he hurried away.  Arthur sighed.  He reached down and picked up his hat, dusting it before placing it atop his head.  Slowly he brushed away any dirt his clothes might have acquired.  No damage had been done.  Even to the most trained eye, his uniform was practically immaculate.  He hoped he could keep it that way for the duration of his leave, although that was perhaps unlikely considering the size of the crowd in front of him.  Arthur steeled himself and journeyed forth.

The Portuguese street was indeed packed tightly with people darting in and out of various shops, shouting, talking, and jostling each other with arms full of goods.  Rich smells of roast meat, good beer, and freshly baked bread mingled with those of sweaty customers and their animals.  Arthur moved as deftly as he could, his eyes scanning and mentally translating the many signs.  He made a mental note to visit them before he left the town.  Maybe Angelique would like something from one of the jewelry shops.  Rubies to match the red ribbons she wore in her hair or a clear, bright blue stone.  Something so fine was surely beyond his salary, but his fiancée deserved the best money could buy.

He needed a quiet place away from these throngs of people.  He caught sight of a path leading away from the main street and followed it.  Trees lined the narrow road, providing welcome shade from the hot sun.  To his right he saw a park.  Green grass covered neat spaces and gently rolling little hills.  The sun glinted off a small lake in the center.  Flower bushes accented the area with color.  Couples and families strolled, and some rested on spread-out blankets, enjoying picnics.  Birds sang in the many trees.  A perfect place.

Finding a bench, Arthur sat down and pulled out a thick envelope from inside his jacket.  It was still warm from being so close to his heart.  Opening it, he found two letters and the photograph of a beautiful, smiling girl wearing ribbons in her hair.  Gently, Arthur placed the picture on his knee, taking care that a gust of wind would not carry it away, and began to read the first of the letters.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I hope this letter find you well, and this voyage has been a safe one.  I do not need to say how much we miss you when you go away.  You have said many a time how much you love this, but I still believe the house feels emptier when you leave.  Your brothers feel the same, even if they won’t admit it to you.  Now don’t you go thinking that your big sister is getting weepy and sentimental.  I don’t get weepy, certainly not like other older sisters in the world, that’s for sure.  And a little bit of sentiment has never harmed anything.  
_

_This reminds me.  Arthur, write to your brothers as soon as you can.  I admit, it is fun to see you flustered like a wet hen, but you left still angry with your brothers.  They’re crazy more often than not, I know, but they do love you.  I know that little show they took you to was on the silly side, but I don’t think they meant any real insult by it.  At the very least, I don’t like to think of you sailing the seven seas mad at the only brothers you’ve got.  We don’t know when you will return, and there shouldn’t be bad blood among you four for months at a time._

_Andrew and Emrys have gone to escort Angelique here for the wedding.  I have been busily working on her wedding dress, and once she arrives, we will finish it.  Things have not been progressing completely smoothly, though.  Sean and I have been arguing where the ceremony should be.  Sean says it needs to be in a Protestant church, and I insist that it should be in a Catholic one.  You were baptized in a Catholic church after all.  But it is your decision, and don’t let my biases get in the way of your wishes.  Write to me soon and tell me what you want, so we can make arrangements.  I still believe you need to be married in a Catholic church, though._

_To think my youngest brother is getting married!  Arthur, Angelique is such a sweet girl!  I think you’ll be very, very happy.  We have been corresponding regularly and becoming very good friends.  She sent me a letter and photograph for you, which I’m enclosing in this.  You are such a lucky boy._

_Stay safe, Arthur and come home soon.  
_

_Céad míle beannachta._

_Your loving sister,_

_Brigid  
_

“Who’s that?”  Startled by the new voice, Arthur looked up to see a tall army corporal with unruly blond hair staring at the picture resting on his knee.  Arthur suddenly felt very protective.  He glared at the man and tucked the photograph inside the envelope.

“My fiancée,” he told him, his voice cold.  How dare this impudent man interrupt his reading?  Arthur glared at him.  The corporal did not seem to take the hint.  He whistled.

“Lucky you,” he said with a wink.  “I bet you met her on one of your voyages.  Where was it?  Polynesia?  The Philippines?  I heard the girls are gorgeous in Jamaica.”

“I think it is none of your business.”  Arthur gritted his teeth.

“Hey, let the remaining bachelors in the world dream!  I’m just an army corporal, so there’s no chance of my ever running and marrying her sister.  We’re a landlocked bunch, and Portuguese girls are nothing to complain about.  Although, now that I think about it, my ancestors sailed the seas.  Maybe I should have joined the navy instead.  Best job in the world, huh?”  He nudged Arthur with his elbow.  Arthur recoiled.  “Traveling to all those places, shooting cannons.  Cannons are the greatest thing, am I right?  Light the fuse and BOOM!”  His blue eyes gleamed.  Arthur wondered what the man did before he joined the army.  “Hey, have you ever fired a cannon?  There’s not any chance of it here, since everything’s so quiet, but I was just wonder—”

“Corporal Køhler,” a quiet, low voice interrupted.  Immediately, the corporal snapped to attention and saluted.  Curious, Arthur turned to see a sergeant standing behind his bench, his expression unreadable.  Despite being smaller in statue and slighter than the corporal, the sergeant seemed to wield a special kind of control over him.  His dark blue eyes met Arthur’s for a moment, and Arthur immediately understood why.

“Køhler, were you bothering this gentleman?”

“Just making conversation, sir.”

“Is that true?” the sergeant asked Arthur.

“Conversation of a sort,” he replied.  The sergeant said nothing.

“Very well.  Back to your duties, then.”  The two shared a salute, and the sergeant disappeared before Arthur realized he was gone.  Køhler laughed.

“He’s a handful, let me tell you.  Never can figure out what’s going on in his head.  He likes me, though.”  He shrugged.  “Could have been Oxenstierna.  Now that’s a man you don’t want to meet when he’s mad.  But hey!”  Køhler pulled out his pocket-watch.  “Listen, you’ve been at sea for a while, so you’re probably eager to see the sights.”  Arthur did not know how to respond to that.  “Well, today’s your lucky day.  About this time, the artists and their models come here to work and talk.  They like this spot, has something to do with the light.  They’ll be coming any minute now.  I think you might like it, since you’ve only had your fiancée’s picture for company.”  He leaned forward.  “The models are beautiful.  They meet your gaze straight on and will whisper sweet words in your ear.  If you’re interested.”

“Køhler.”  The corporal immediately straightened. 

“How does he do that?” he wondered aloud.

“Thank you but I am not interested at all,” Arthur told him.

Køhler shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  They’re coming.”  He winked and hurried away.

The nerve of him, Arthur huffed.  As if he would just latch onto some random woman of easy virtue just because he had not been with anyone for several months.  The thought disgusted him.  Angelique deserved better, and he would give it to her.

The sounds of laughter and talking met his ears.  Several people were approaching, many of them clutching easels, sketchbooks, pencils, and palettes.  Arthur watched them.  The women who walked with them were indeed as lovely and bold as Køhler had claimed.  Some of them walked barefoot, holding their skirts up and exposing their ankles.  Many had loosened their hair and let it fall free around their shoulders.  They chatted merrily with the artists.  Their eyes flashed provocatively at anyone they noticed looking at them, with coy smiles and dangerous glances.  And the artists!  Such an odd mix of people.  Arthur noticed a tall man with curly dark hair who looked as if he were sleepwalking.  A cat peered out of his bag.  Behind him walked a young man who seemed to be having an energetic conversation with the air.  Several girls latched onto him, giggling and blushing while he talked.  To his surprise, Arthur noticed a woman among them, although he was not sure at first due to the trousers she wore.  But woman she was, with blond bobbed hair and a wide brimmed hat and long scarf.  Arthur had never seen anyone like her.  He returned to Brigid’s letter.

“Francis!  Francis is here!” someone shouted.

Arthur looked up.  The world stilled.

At the end of the long line of artists came a man.  He moved with a certain kind of grace that was neither walking nor dancing.  His shoulder length hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight and fell in smooth waves down the sides of his face.  A slight beard grew on his chin.  He was thin but evidently strong and muscled if the slender cut of his clothing indicated anything.  His skin practically glowed with health and life.  The man glanced in Arthur’s direction.  Their eyes met.  Arthur ceased to breathe.

Blue.  Blue like the waters near Angelique’s home.  Deep and warm and so, so inviting.  Calm on the surface, mysterious and dark below.  Arthur wanted to wade into them, let them hold him, surround him until everything dissolved and there was nothing left except the blue of those eyes.  He would stay there forever if the world let him.  A strange feeling bubbled in the pit of his stomach; his heart raced.  There was a glimmer, a bit of charmed light that sparked in those orbs.  “Let them shine for me,” Arthur thought.  Suddenly he blinked, frowned, and shook his head.  Just what had gotten into him?  “Water can drown,” he told himself.  He tore his gaze away from Francis.

The artists arranged themselves around the park.  The young talkative man settled on the grass, surrounded by various laughing girls.  The strange woman in the trousers sat a few feet away under the shade of a large tree.  The one with the cats just lay down in the sun.  Francis seated himself at the bench opposite Arthur’s.  Crossing his long legs, he took out a large sketchbook and smiled.  His teeth were white.  Arthur glared at him and focused on Brigid’s letter.

Women and men gathered around Francis.  Some drew very close to his legs, touching his knees with light, hesitant fingers.  Others stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders and stroking his hair.  It was as if they desperately needed to feel him in some way, to be close, and to know that he liked their hands on him.  Some stared at him with curiosity, others with admiration, but the desire and longing were evident in all.  Watching Francis begin to make broad, swift lines on the paper, Arthur wondered if the artist knew the extent of the veneration his followers experienced towards him.  When Francis smiled and winked at a young man at his feet, Arthur rolled his eyes.  Of course he knew.

Behind Francis, a girl bent down and wrapped her arms around him.  She nuzzled his cheek.  “Francis, Francis, when will you love me?”  Francis turned towards her.  He kissed her hand.

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, I cannot say.  Perhaps you would not want me to love you.”

The girl made a noise of protest.  “Oh Francis, I adore you!  If you loved me, I would wish for nothing else in this world.”  Others spoke up with similar declarations.

“Francis, marry me.”

“Francis, we should be together.”

“Francis, when will you give your love to us?”  At that, the artist tipped back his head and laughed.

“When.  When.  That is all you think about, _mes amours_!  Love is an untamed bird!  It comes and goes as it pleases!  Once you try to control it, it cannot exist.  I will say I do love, but who it is I cannot say.  It could be any one of you.”  He paused.  “It could be you!”  Something struck Arthur’s head and fell into his lap.  To his astonishment, he found a brilliant red rose lying there.  Astonished, he picked it up and raised his head.  Francis stared at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.  Arthur tossed the rose away and scowled.  The admirers snickered.  Arthur refused to look at them.  The simpering group of people was not worth it.

“You may not love me, but I might love you, and if I love you, you might wish it were not so.”

“Francis!” the woman in the trousers shouted.  “If you do not stop talking, I will take my palette and break it over your head!  I am trying to concentrate, and you keep chattering on.  And now the sun has disappeared behind the clouds and my light is gone.”

“ _Je suis désolé_ , _ma_ _Bohémienne_.  Allow me to make it up to you.”

“No,” the woman replied.  “But you can buy me a drink.”

“But of course.”  Francis quickly gathered his things together.  “Feliciano, Herakles, do you care to join us?”  The young man scrambled up.

“Thank you, big brother Francis!” he exclaimed. 

The man with the cat did not move.

As quickly as they had arrived, the artists, their models, and their admirers packed up and left.  Arthur did not watch them go.  He had far more important things to do, and none of the departing group interested him.  They were a lazy, lecherous group of people.  Perhaps they had talent, great talent, but that did not compensate for their lifestyles.  They toyed with people’s minds and feelings as if they were simple playthings.  Nothing they said could be trusted or believed.  Their words were false, tricks so they could gain what they wanted.  That was all.  Arthur glanced at the rose beside him.  And yet, they seemed to have a special sort of freedom.  They came when they wished and departed when they were through.  Not a single thing to tie them down in one spot.  Despite himself, he began to wonder.  To travel anywhere he wanted, to live without rules with someone who adored him.  What would it be like, that life?  To be completely unfettered from the burdens of the world?  To need only love to make it through the day?

“Rubbish,” Arthur thought.  “Romantic, nonsensical rubbish.”

He still had not read Angelique’s letter.  A pang of guilt struck him hard.  His fiancée deserved better.  He unfolded it.  Angelique had drawn little seashells and fish in the margins.  How sweet.  Arthur liked that about her; she could be so clever and enthusiastic.  It was a good kind of cleverness and creativity she possessed, too.  He sighed.  “Thank goodness I remembered this when I did,” he told himself.  “Who knows what I would have done if I had not.”

_Dear Arthur,  
_

_I hope you are doing well.  Everyday I think about you.  You never leave my mind, even when I am sleeping.  Do you think about me often?  I hope so.  I am marking the days until our wedding on the calendar you gave me on your last visit.  The number is growing shorter and shorter, Arthur!  I am so excited!  
_

_I went swimming yesterday.  Are the waters in England very cold?  I will miss swimming in the sea if we live there.  I bet the fish are not as brilliant or as colorful as they are in my home.  I drew you some of the ones I have seen recently.  When you come again, I will have to show them to you.  You have to be very still, and they will swim right up to you.  They might be a little frightened of you, but if you stay close to me, they will come by because I am their friend.  I hope we will not be in England for so long that they forget me.  That would make me so sad, Arthur.  
_

_I have been writing to your sister.  She is very nice.  I am sending her this letter and a recent photograph of me for her to send to you.  I thought it might get to you sooner that way.  I had hoped the picture would make a nice birthday present, but I guess when you get this, your birthday will already have happened.  Happy Birthday Arthur!  I learned a new song recently, and when we see each other again I will—_

“Come on, both of you, break it up!” Køhler’s loud voice interrupted his reading.  The corporal and his sergeant were struggling to keep two men from ripping each other’s throats out.  One was a small blond man; the other was Francis.

“Coward!” the small man shouted.  “I demand a duel!”

“I can fight you now, you hot-tempered dwarf.  Just how strong are you without your guns?” Francis said.

“Strong enough to defend my sister’s honor!  You insulted her!”

“I tell you I had no idea she was twelve!”

“How could you not see?  Or do you keep your eyes in your pants?”

“Basch, please, this is not necessary.”  For the first time, Arthur noticed a young, pretty girl with long blond hair in braids standing close to the small man.  Her gaze flitted nervously from her brother, to Francis, to the two soldiers.

“Listen to your sister, Zwingli,” Francis remarked with a leer.  “You might want to give her a nice reward when you get home.  The way you protect her, it looks like no one else will get a chance.”

Zwingli broke from the sergeant’s grip with surprising strength and speed.  In an instant, he leapt on Francis, knocking him to the ground.  The girl was roughly shoved out of the way.  The two rolled in a mess of tightly wound limps, kicking, punching, and biting each other with some difficulty.  Neither showed any sign of backing down.  Arthur watched with a strange sense of morbid interest.

“That’s enough!” the sergeant shouted as they tried pulling the men apart.  “Where is Oxenstierna?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Køhler said.

“Find him then.  Stop it, both of you,” he told the still snarling men.

“Sir, do you really think you can handle both of them on your own?”

“Very well then.  Køhler, take Zwingli to the prison.  I will find Oxenstierna.”

“Aye aye, sir.”  Køhler dragged Zwingli away, his sister following close on their heels.

“What a relief,” Francis sighed.  His clothing was a little scuffed and bit of blood rested at the corner of his mouth, but otherwise he was completely unharmed.  “Am I free to leave now, _sergent_?”

“No,” he replied.  “You still caused a disturbance and made a lewd remark to a young girl.”  He pointed to Arthur.  “You.  Keep an eye on him until I return.”  Without another word, he bound Francis’ hands with a short length of rope and departed.

A moment passed in silence.  Arthur frowned at the artist.  Francis took a deep breath.

“That was unexpected.”  He grinned at Arthur.  “Allow me to introduce myself, _monsieur_.  My name is Francis Bonnefoy.”  He bowed at the waist.  “Please forgive me.  My present condition prevents me from honoring you properly.  What is your name?”

“It’s none of your business,” Arthur told him curtly.

“Oh.”  If Arthur had not known better, he would have thought Francis looked disappointed.  “Can I not have the name of the last man I shall know before captivity?”

Well if he put it that way.  “Arthur Kirkland, first lieutenant of the HMS _Lincoln_.”

“ _Enchanté_.  Please, may I sit with you?”

“If you want.”  Arthur might have an easier time guarding him this way. 

“I see you kept my rose.”

“I just haven’t thrown it away, you stupid frog.”

“I see.”  Francis began to sing softly.  His voice was low, rich, and lilting.  Arthur found himself draw to the soothing sound.  If he closed his eyes, he could easily be carried away.  More than he already was.

“Will you stop that?  It is annoying.”

“You would prevent a man from singing in his last moments of freedom?”

Arthur regarded him curiously.  “Do you really love freedom that much?”

“But of course.  Freedom is the air I breathe, my blood, my life.  It is the only way.  I go where I want and do what I wish and love whom I love.  I could not exist otherwise.  It would be a torment.  Do you understand how I feel?”

“I think so.”  Arthur remembered the stories he had read as a child.  Pirates and tall ships sailing into the horizon with only the spirit of adventure to guide them.  He remembered traveling with his family to the coast and spending hours at the beach just staring at the sea.  He had wanted it, that life of excitement, danger, and exploration, sailing wherever the wind took him.  Things had changed, but at least the navy had prospects.  He would one day have everything his heart desired.  But that had not been why he joined the navy in the first place.  Arthur had wanted this, he truly did, but he could not deny that his ideal future was not his dream.  It never had been.  “No, I do know,” he said quietly.

“I thought you might.”  Francis held out his hands.  “I am afraid the sergeant tied the rope too tight.  I cannot feel my fingers.  Would you untie them, please?"

Arthur shook his head.  “You are not going to get me that easily, damned frog.”

“ _Non_ , of course.  But as an artist, my hands are my most prized possession.  I would hate to see anything happen to them.”

“Oh very well.”  Arthur moved to undo the knot.  “Promise me you will behave?”

The Frenchman’s grin was wicked.  “I make no promises, _Anglais_.”

“Shut up.”  The knot was extremely easy for his deft sailor’s fingers to work through.  In less than a moment, Arthur pulled the loosened rope away.  He looked up and found himself staring again into Francis’ eyes.  Only now, they were much closer.  Arthur could see the shifting colors in the iris and the darkening pupil.  Francis’ breath was warm.  His scent, wine, roses, and paint, filled Arthur’s nose.  If Arthur leaned forward just a little, he would feel Francis’ beard on his skin.  The warm, fluttery feeling in his gut returned; his heart pounded.  “Too much, too much,” he thought.  Only it was not.  It could never be enough.

“Arthur, when I said I was in love, I spoke the truth.”

“Really?  And who is the unlucky person?”

Those blue eyes sparkled with mischief.  “I can tell you he is in the navy.  He is not a commodore or even a captain.  He is just a lieutenant.”  He slipped the rose into Arthur’s hand.  “You love me.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned.  “If I do?”

“Then let me go.”  Arthur jerked away.  Immediately, Francis reached out and pulled him close again.  “Listen, _mon amour_ , I am just an artist.  They do not truly care whether I escape or not.  Once things settle, we should meet.  My friend Gilbert Beilschmidt has a place.  It is bad, but he does remember to serve good wine.  Come to me there, and we will drink and dance.”

This was insane.  He should knock Francis off the bench.  Arthur sighed deeply.  “What should I do?”

“Wrap the rope around my wrists.  Before they take me, I’ll push you down.  Act surprised, and they will not suspect you.”

“Very well.”  He started to move the rose, but Francis’ hand on his stopped him.

“Keep it somewhere safe.  It suits you.  Do you know what red roses mean?”

“Of course.”  A tremor raced through his body.  “Romantic love.”  He swallowed hard.  “Let’s get this over with.”  He bound Francis’ hands lightly, making sure the knots were loose enough for him to untie and escape with ease.  “I do not know why I am doing this,” he muttered.  Francis’ fingers were long, slender like the rest of him, with only the faintest hint of calluses.  “You take care of your hands,” he remarked.

“I told you, they are my greatest possession.  You have a gentle touch when the situation calls for it, I think.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“You like it.  And you do know why.

“Yes, I do.”  Arthur slipped the rose into the pocket next to his heart.  The delicate thing would be crushed, but Arthur would take care of it as long as he could.  Brigid had taught him how to preserve flowers; he would take care of this one for the rest of his days.  How strange.  How odd.  Only a few hours ago, the world had been upright, neat, straight, and perfectly in order.  Now everything was askew and covered with a warm pink tint.  Part of Arthur’s mind could not believe he was about to let a prisoner escape.  What this what love did to people?  Because Arthur was…in love with the creature in front of him.

He noticed two figures approaching.  “They are coming.  Act serious.”  Immediately, Francis pulled away.  He cast his eyes downwards, looking very much the regretful perpetrator.  Arthur sat up straight.  If this were to go right, he would have to appear stern and disdainful.  He stood to greet the two officers.

Accompanying the sergeant was one of the tallest, most fearsome men Arthur had ever seen.  His features seemed to be carved out of stone, and his spectacles did nothing to soften his face.  “So this is Oxenstierna,” he thought.  “Is it any wonder Køhler was relieved earlier?”  He cleared his throat.  “Well, gentlemen, here he is.  I have to say he has been well behaved since you left.”  A corner of Francis’ mouth tipped up.  “Take him.  I have had my fill.”  Was it Arthur’s imagination, or was Oxenstierna watching him closely.  Arthur feigned indifference.

The sergeant pulled Francis up.  Suddenly, he pushed forward.  His hands were free.  Arthur fell to the ground.  Francis jammed his elbow into the sergeant’s stomach, who doubled over with a low groan and darted away from Oxenstierna’s reach.  He gave chase, but Francis moved surprisingly fast.  Arthur watched, transfixed.  The afternoon had shifted to dusk, and the sun cast shades of brilliant red into Francis’ hair and made the gold shine brighter.  He turned and blew a kiss.

“ _Au revoir_!” he shouted and disappeared.

“Sergeant, are you all right?” Oxenstierna asked.

“Yes sir, I am fine.”  He took several deep breaths.  “I was not expecting that.  How did…?” he trailed off.  “Curious.”  Carefully, he picked up the discarded rope and examined it.  Arthur rose to his feet.  Oxenstierna watched him, his gaze piercing and direct.

“This rope has been retied,” the sergeant said finally.  He threw it down.

Arthur said nothing; he did not need to.  _So this is what love does_.  He thought of Francis running free.  Would he wait for him?  Would his love grow, or would it pass to another?  He touched the rose hidden inside his jacket.  Francis did love him, of that he was sure.  Arthur felt a burning sense of relief.  Francis loved him.

Oxenstierna stepped forward.  Arthur closed his eyes.

This was worth it.

“Lieutenant, you are under arrest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, Brigid = Ireland, Sean = Northern Ireland, Andrew = Scotland, Emrys = Wales. Angelique is of course Seychelles, and I used the popular fan name of Mathais Køhler for Denmark. 
> 
> Céad míle beannachta means “A hundred thousand blessings” in Irish Gaelic.
> 
> Arthur’s brothers took him to Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore. The song is “When I was a lad”.
> 
> Bonus points for anyone who guesses where the name of Arthur’s ship comes from.


	2. Act II

“Seven.  Please let it be a seven,” Feliciano prayed as he tossed the dice in his hand.

“That never works, Feli.  You know I always win,” the boy opposite him said with a mischievous wink.  His green eyes were alight with excitement and anticipation.

“But right now I feel lucky.  Come on seven!”  He let the dice fly.  They bounced against the wooden floor, rolling several times before coming to a rest in front of his opponent.  The two Italians leaned close, the crowns of their heads nearly touching.  The clock ticked off the seconds as they peered at the number.  Finally, the younger one cheered.

“Five!  I win again!  Pay up, Feliciano!”  Feliciano rolled his eyes but smiled as he handed over a coin.

“I don’t know why you even bet against each other in the first place,” Gilbert remarked from his place behind the bar.  His little, yellow bird rested on top of his head.  “You’re family, so it’s not like the money actually goes anywhere.”  He finished polishing a glass and set it on the shelf.  

Feliciano shrugged.  “Well, it gives Valentino a chance to practice his gambling.”  He stood up.  “Winner buys the loser a drink.”  Valentino frowned. 

“If I knew you were planning that, I would have let you win.”  He placed the coin in Gilbert’s open hand.  “Besides, it’s not much practice when I bet against you.  You’re too easy to beat.”  Feliciano just smiled. 

“Don’t let Oxenstierna and Bondevik hear you talking about cheating people out of their hard earned money,” Gilbert said, nodding to where the lieutenant and sergeant sat and chatted with Elizabeta.  He pocketed the coin and poured two glasses of wine. 

Valentino took a sip.  His glanced at Feliciano uncertainly.  “Oxenstierna wouldn’t do anything to us here, would he?  I thought this was neutral territory.” 

“Nothing is ever completely neutral,” Gilbert muttered. 

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, _cuginetto_ ,” Feliciano told him.  He clapped his hands loudly.  “Ve, I want to dance.  Gilbert, dance with me!”  The bartender’s face grew as red as his eyes.  He threw up his hands.  The bird took the opportunity to perch next to the rows of bottles. 

“Feli, I don’t know how.”  At the Italian’s pleading eyes, he relaxed, grinned, and allowed Feliciano to pull him out into the center of the room. 

“This calls for music!” Valentino exclaimed.  He grabbed a tambourine and began beating it lightly.  His voice filled the space, forming no words but creating a lively, graceful melody.  Feliciano moved accordingly.  Hips swaying, he stepped around Gilbert, slowly turning with a languid ease that came intrinsically to him.  His eyes shone, and the dim light caught the copper tones in his hair.  Gilbert watched him with wide eyes and an open mouth.  The music quickened.  Suddenly he reached out, grabbed Feliciano by the waist, and pulled his body close to his.  Their feet tapped out a staccato rhythm on the wooden floorboards.  Feliciano danced as one well accustomed to the art form, his footwork fancy and complicated, but Gilbert was not about to allow the young Italian to outdo him.  Never did he loosen his grip on Feliciano, spinning and twirling him until their forms mingled into one, pale and tan, white and auburn.  Valentino’s song floated above them. 

Francis took a long drag from his cigarette and looked away.  

“You are quiet,” Anna remarked beside him. 

“I am just thinking.” 

“About what?”  His friend was being persistent again.  Francis smiled at her.

“Nothing.” 

“It is never nothing with you.”  She tugged at the knees of her trousers.  “What is on your mind?  You are acting strangely, and it doesn’t suit you.” 

What could he tell her?  Francis himself was not completely sure.  His heart and mind were wonderfully light but oddly fettered.  Pain mixed with the sweetest of pleasures whenever he thought of the navy officer with the brilliant green eyes.  Normally, he did not reflect very much on his feelings, but he could not escape them now.  They were beautiful; they were hideous, and neither was completely separate from the other.  Joy, passion, frustration, sadness, and anger mixed together in his mind, forming dabs and dots on a wide canvas.  He was too close to see the picture yet, much less understand it, but he could stare at the detail forever.  It drew him in and delighted him, even as it deeply unsettled him.  How could he explain that to her? 

Francis opened his mouth to again assure Anna that everything was all right when Køhler shouted, “He feels guilty!” 

Anna looked at him incredulously.  “Guilty?  What do you have to feel guilty about, you hedonist?” 

“It’s that English sailor, isn’t it?” Køhler spoke up.  Francis wished Bondevik would go ahead and strangle the talkative corporal with a necktie.  “You feel bad that he got punished because of you, am I right?  And since Zwingli’s sister convinced him to drop the charges, you got off free.  Just what happened to that sailor anyway?” 

“Demotion and a month’s imprisonment,” Bondevik replied.  Francis frowned and slipped that information into his memory. 

“The navy will decide what else to do with him once he is released this evening,” Oxenstierna added. 

“Oh,” Francis said.

“How strange and enticing,” Elizabeta declared.  “Francis, I must know about this.  What did the Englishman look like?” 

He shrugged nonchalantly.  “ _Ma cherie_ , I truly could not say.  I do not remember him very well.”  He laughed and tried to ignore Anna’s gaze boring into him. 

“I need a drink!” Gilbert suddenly exclaimed.  He stumbled to the bar, dizzy and flushed, and downed half of Valentino’s wine in one gulp.  Valentino squawked in protest.  Shaking his head, Gilbert pointed at Feliciano.  “You,” he began through panting breaths, “remind me to take you to the Danube one day.  You’ll love it.”  Feliciano beamed.  

“Drinks on the house!” Valentino shouted. 

“No they’re not!” Gilbert yelled.  He refilled the young Italian’s glass and pushed it to him.  “Forget wine, I need a beer.” 

“You do not feel guilty,” Anna hissed in his ear.  Francis rolled his eyes.  He had hoped she had dropped the subject.  Evidently, luck was not with him this evening.  “You have never felt guilty about a thing.” 

“Perhaps I do.” 

“No, this is something else.  You would not be so reflective over a bad conscience.  This is more like…oh.  Oh.”  Her voice held a knowing tone that Francis did not like.  “Is this love?  Francis, are you in love?  Really?  With that English lieutenant?  The one with the little caterpillars above his eyes?” 

“And if I was?” he asked. 

“If you were, I would be stunned.”  She blinked.  “That was a month ago.  It must be love.  This is a very long time for you to be interested in anyone.”  Anna flicked the ashes off the end of her cigarette.  “What did I miss?  I saw him; there was nothing special.  Why would you even fall in love with him?  What made him worth falling in love with?” 

Francis inclined his head.  “Tell me, _ma Bohemienne_ , what do you know about love? 

Anna slumped against him.  “ _Touché_.” 

The door to the beer hall opened and shut suddenly.  A man clad in a wide brimmed dark hat and long black cloak hurriedly entered.  He leaned against the wall for a moment, evidently catching his breath.  The man’s collar was turned up as if he wanted to prevent anyone from seeing his face.  Francis knew, though; he recognized that form.  He rose from his chair. 

“Antonio!” Gilbert shouted.  As if on cue, the stranger tossed his outer garments away, revealing the smiling Spaniard underneath.  The hall immediately erupted in cries of delight, exclamations, and whispers.  A crowd began to gather at the foot of the steps.  They gazed up at him in astonishment and adoration.  Antonio raised his hand and nodded to the people.  Francis winked at him.  It felt good to have someone else be the center of attention once in a while, and Antonio reacted to it as naturally as Francis.  He thrived on adoration.  Perhaps that was why he became a matador in the first place.  That and the thrill of the fight. 

“It took you long enough to get here,” Gilbert remarked. 

Antonio shrugged apologetically.  “It was not easy for me to walk around unnoticed.  Even here they recognize me!” 

“After your last fight, is it any wonder?  I wish I had been there.  It sounded awesome!”

“It was,” Francis remarked. 

“Long live Carriedo!” someone shouted.  Antonio grinned.  Gilbert stretched his arm up and passed him a glass of wine. 

“A toast to my friends!” Antonio declared.  The crowd cheered loudly and lifted their drinks in the air.  Francis took a small sip of his wine.  His friend looked better than he had in a long time. 

“Carriedo, tell us about your last fight!” Køhler demanded. 

Antonio handed his glass to one of the women that had gathered around him.  “Shall I?” 

“Please!” 

“Tell us!  Tell us!” 

“Very well.  If you wish, _amigos_.”  He not need much encouragement, Francis thought.  Antonio moved to the bottom of the steps.  The crowd pulled away slightly to give him room to walk around with ease.  “It was a beautiful day.  The arena was full.  The men wore their best suits, the woman black lace and satin.  They were packed tightly together, hot and tense with anticipation.  Who would fall and who would emerge the victor?  Imagine for a moment, _mis amigos_ , the bull in his pen, growing angrier by the minute.  And the _torero_ waiting, praying, listening to the cheers and taunts and jeers.  This is where he will prove his valor and daring.”  He let out a loud shout.  “The bull is free!  Down fall the picador and his horse.  The banderillas try to make their hits, but the bull chases them away.”  He clapped.  “The people cry, ‘Bravo, brave bull!’  It is time.”  He stepped forward.  “Blood has mixed with the sand.  The fervor and rage fills the air.  The bull charges.  I jerk the _muleta_ away.”  He mimed the movements of the red cloth.  “My stance is firm.  Again he comes, and again he passes.  Over and over, each time a little closer than the last, until the crowd is hungry for the final act.  Once more he runs.  My sword is in the air.  I bring it down.”  Antonio’s wide eyes shone.  “And then…” 

“And then what?  What, Carriedo?”  

Antonio sighed as if coming out of a dream.  “Love.”  His smiled returned.  “Olé!”  The crowd burst into applause.  Hands immediately jerked forward to shake his and touch him.  Slowly, Antonio made his way through the small sea of wiggling fingers and palms.  Catching sight of Feliciano, he moved towards him.  The Italian’s eyes immediately lit up. 

“Big brother Antonio!” he cried, embracing him.  “It is so good to see you again.” 

“You too, Feli.”  Antonio stepped back and held him at arm’s length.  “How are you?”

“I am fine.  Money is a little tight, but people like my paintings, and Valentino makes enough that we don’t starve.” 

“Ah yes.”  A moment passed between the two in silence.  “Feliciano, if you ever need anything, please, let me help you.  The same goes for your cousin.” 

Feliciano nodded.  “I know, Big Brother Antonio.  Thank you.” 

“Drinks on the house!  Everyone help yourselves!” Gilbert shouted.  He grabbed Antonio.  “Sorry Feli.  You two can talk later.”  Quickly, he maneuvered him to an empty corner of the room.  Francis followed.  “I can’t believe I missed that bullfight,” Gilbert chattered.  “Francis was so lucky to see it.”  Throwing an arm around his two friends, he pulled them into an awkward three-person hug. 

“Can you believe it!  We’re all here together again!  How long has it been?” 

“Since all three of us occupied the same room?  Three years?  Four?” Antonio wondered. 

“Four,” Francis corrected. 

“That long?” Gilbert said.  “Damn, we need to meet more often.”  Antonio leaned over and kissed both of his cheeks.  Gilbert squirmed.  “Hey, hey, save that for Francis.  You both have that weird Latin blood.” 

“As opposed to the cold, uncultured blood of the Teutons,” Francis teased. 

“We Prussians have culture!” Gilbert protested. 

“Yes,” Antonio remarked.  “Only a Prussian would build a German-styled beer hall in Portugal.” 

“Of course!  Think of all the people would never have experienced the magnificence of true beer in an authentic atmosphere if I hadn’t had that brilliant idea!”  Antonio and Francis rolled their eyes. 

“That reminds me, Gilbert, how is young Ludwig?” Antonio asked. 

Gilbert smiled with all the pride of an elder brother.  “He just entered the _Kriegsakademie_.  It fits him like a glove.  I should have known that he’d love something that disciplined and strict.”  He snickered.  “Just like me.” 

“Truly?” Francis asked with a disbelieving look. 

“Yes.  Truly.”  He took another swig of his beer.  “This calls for better stuff.  Stay there.  I’ll be back in a minute.”  He took off, his bird flying close to his head.

Some semblance of quiet at last.  Francis took the opportunity to study his friend more closely.  The improvement was striking.  Gone were the dark circles under his eyes.  The paleness had all but disappeared.  His eyes held sparkle and the promise of excitement.  His posture indicated newfound energy.  Even his hair had seemed to experience some kind of renewal.  Francis could not help but marvel at the change.  So much had changed from the last time he had seen Antonio, but then, that had been over two months ago.  A lot could happen in such a span of time. 

“Tell me, _mon ami_ ,” he said, “Do those _taleguilla_ you wear in the bullring still flatter your excellent physique?” 

Antonio leaned close.  “Come to my next fight, and you will see.” 

“You know, I have never understood that pastime of your country’s.  Would it not be more enticing for all if they just watched the toreador prance around in that wonderful costume?  Especially if they had a body like yours.”  Antonio laughed at that.  It was a good sound. 

“It’s good to see you again, Francis.” 

“You too, Antoine.  How have you been?  Truly.” 

Antonio sighed.  “Much better actually.  It’s for that reason actually that I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Oh?” 

Antonio fixed his eyes on the floor.  He was quiet for a moment.  “Love is a strange thing, isn’t it?” he said finally. 

“ _Ouais_ , it is.”  Francis waited. 

“When Lovino died, I thought I would never love again.  There would be no more.  Not like that.  Nothing will ever compare to him.  But things change, especially when you least expect them.  The heart can heal and can find love in places you would never think to look.”  He raised his head.  His eyes met Francis’.  They were so earnest, so passionate.  Francis’ stomach turned in knots.  “Francis…” Antonio began. 

“No,” he replied. 

“Oh.”  He nodded.  “I came too late?” 

“I am sorry.” 

“You should not apologize.  The heart is a tricky thing.”  Francis smiled at him reassuringly.  His friend was handsome, charming, a joy and pleasure to be around.  He enjoyed Antonio’s company, whether they were drinking, strolling through busy streets, or simply lying together in the sun.  Francis could not deny that the idea of a romantic relationship with Antonio was a delightful one.  But he did not love him, not yet.  The Spaniard deserved better than an arrangement with someone who did not return his feelings, especially after what he had been through.

Antonio gathered his cloak and hat.  Francis started.  “You are leaving already?”

“I’m afraid I have to,” he said, fastening the garment.  “I came to Portugal to visit my family and to see you.  I’m returning to Seville in the morning.” 

“I see.  Be careful.” 

“I will.  Say goodbye to Gilbert for me.  Please don’t tell him what we talked about.  I don’t want him to feel isolated.” 

“Do not worry.  It is our secret.” 

Antonio smiled.  “ _Gracias_.  I hope you and lover are very happy.  _Adios_ , Francis.” 

“ _Au revoir_.”  Francis watched as he slipped through the hall.  He stopped to say goodbye to Feliciano once more before disappearing out the door like a shadow.  Francis held his wine glass up.  Dim light reflected in the dark liquid.  For a moment he admired how delicately it danced on the surface. 

“There is a matador from Seville, the bold and handsome Carriedo,” he sang softly.  “Strong of arm and proud of aspect, he is the lord of the arena.  With a saucy Italian artist, he fell violently in love…” Francis trailed off.  The scars of deep mourning may have faded, but they would never completely disappear.  Lovino’s memory was still bound to Antonio’s heart.  

Gilbert returned, a bottle in hand.  “Since you two are so insistent on drinking wine, I am going to treat you to the best German—oh.  He left.” 

Francis nodded.  “I am afraid so.” 

Disappointed, Gilbert groaned.  “I guess I am going to have to save you for another four years,” he told the wine bottle.  “This was a short visit.” 

“He said he was just visiting family and was leaving in the morning.”

“I’ll never understand how his mind works.  Oh well.”  He turned around.  “Closing time everyone!”  Moans and complaints came from all corners of the room.  Gilbert shrugged.  “I know this has been the most amazing evening of your lives, but I have to follow regulations.  Am I right, Oxenstierna?”  The lieutenant nodded. 

“Since when have you cared about regulations, Beilschmidt?” Køhler asked. 

“Since this evening.  Come on, everyone.  The party’s over.” 

“It is getting late,” Bondevik agreed.  “Lieutenant, would you care to attend a concert with me?  I heard Edelstein is performing at the theater.”

“Thank you, sergeant.”  Oxenstierna gestured to Elizabeta and Anna.  “Ladies, would you like to accompany us?” 

“Thank you,” Elizabeta replied with a smile.  Anna rose and walked over to them. 

“If Edelstein is playing, I cannot miss it.  It will be nice to see him again, won’t it, Erzsi?” 

“Yes.  It has been a while.  Do you think they will let you in dressed like that?” 

“They will.  Does anyone else wish to come?”  Feliciano shook his head. 

“I think I will miss it tonight,” Francis said.  Anna raised an eyebrow. 

“I grew up with Edelstein,” Gilbert remarked.  “I’ve had enough of his plinking piano keys and screechy strings to last a lifetime.”  Elizabeta’s eyes flashed. 

“Gilbert, one day I’m going to cut out your tongue.” 

“Someone is feeling protective this evening,” Anna bluntly stated.  Her gaze met Francis’.  He refused to weaken under her scrutiny.  With a grin, he waved her off.  Anna shook her head and took Bondevik’s arm while Elizabeta took Oxenstierna’s.  Francis noted with interest how Oxenstierna’s hand lightly rested on Bondevik’s shoulder.  All together, they made a very attractive foursome, he thought with a smirk.  What a perfect subject for a classical pastoral scene, albeit one that would never come to be.  Anna and Elizabeta would never let him paint them nude.  Perhaps something featuring the officers?  Francis found himself excited by the prospect of Oxenstierna and Bondevik as Achilles and Patroclus.  Helmets, shield, maybe a cape, two swords, and nothing else.  It would be a perfect composition. 

“Berwald, do you think Timo will be there?” Elizabeta asked as they exited. 

“Don’t know.  I have not seen him in a while.” 

Gilbert ushered the last of his patrons out.  Settling himself on the floor, Feliciano took out his sketchbook.  Valentino sat beside him, dice and playing cards in hand.  Francis pulled out another cigarette.   With a toothy grin, Gilbert wished Køhler a goodnight and practically pushed him out the door.  “Finally!” he cried, slamming it shut.  Dashing to a far wall, he swept a small rug away.  He stomped on the floor three times. 

“Gilbert, you nearly made me mess up this sketch!” Feliciano protested. 

Immediately, the trapdoor rose, revealing a tall man with white-blond hair and large lavender eyes.  “Hello!” he greeted Gilbert cheerfully.  Gilbert did not look pleased. 

“Evening Braginski,” he said.  He reached down to help the smuggler up.  A cold-eyed girl followed, accompanied by a dandy, an inconspicuously dressed dark-haired young man, and a smaller, blond, lavender-eyed man. 

“I was beginning to think you would never let us in,” Braginski said.  “I wanted to go ahead, but Mihai insisted it would be bad for us if I did.” 

“Patience serves many rewards,” Mihai remarked as he adjusted the cuffs of his coat.  Spotting Valentino’s playing cards, he immediately swiped them and began shuffling them.

“You did take a long time closing,” Braginski told Gilbert. 

“It was a busy evening.  We had a special guest.  But whatever.  You are here now.  Did you bring the goods?”

“You doubt my brother’s word?” the girl asked. 

“I am sure Herr Beilschmidt intended no insult, Natalia,” the other blond man told her.  “Hello Feliciano.  Valentino.  Hello Francis.”  

“ _Bonsoir_ Timo.  Oxenstierna was talking about you.” 

“Was he really?”  Timo’s cheeks flushed pale pink.  “I will have to see him again soon.” 

“Enough conversation.” the dark-haired man declared.  “I thought we were here for an exchange.”

“Simeon is right.”  Braginski handed Gilbert a bottle.  “I promise it is the best.”  Without a word, Gilbert opened it and took a large swig.  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 

“You delivered.  How many?” 

“Five.” 

“Bring them to the back.  The money’s there.”  Francis watched as the men lifted the heavy cases and carried them to the storeroom.  Gilbert pointed at the two Italians. 

“Feliciano, Valentino, come here.  We need your help unpacking and storing these things.” 

“Ve, Gilbert, I’m busy!” 

“That can wait.  I need you.  Come on.”  Reluctantly, Feliciano shoved his sketchbook away.  The two followed him, leaving Francis alone in the room. 

Putting out his cigarette, Francis stood and crossed the room.  He began flipping through Feliciano’s sketchbook.  Some landscapes, lots of cats.  “Feli has been spending too much time with Herakles,” he said to himself.  Many figure studies, mostly of beautiful women, and many more of their faces.  Feliciano paid special attention to unique expressions; it was one of the things Francis liked about his work.  Settled in the midst of the drawings was a sketch of a cherubic, blond boy.  Francis marveled at it for a moment.  Such delicate lines drawn by a loving hand.  Looking closer, Francis noticed a resemblance to Gilbert’s little brother.  Flipping through the pages, he found that the little, round face appeared repeatedly.  How interesting.  He would have to ask Feliciano about them later.

The door opened.  Francis did not bother looking up.  “I am afraid the bar has closed this evening,” he told the new customer. 

“Even for me?” 

The sketchbook fell out of Francis’ hands. 

Arthur stood at the top of the stairs.  He pushed the door closed with a decisive snick.  His expression was serious, but his eyes, oh his eyes held that burning brilliant fire Francis had spent long hours thinking of.  His uniform was slightly rumpled, his hair not as neatly combed as when they had first met.  Francis wondered what he would need to do to muss Arthur further.  He certainly was a delightful sight for his eyes.  Slowly, Arthur made his way down the steps, his boots tapping on the wood.  Tossing Feliciano’s sketchbook on a table, Francis moved to meet him.  His heart pounded.  He decided to act nonchalant.  It would get more of a reaction out of Arthur that way, and Francis had longed to make that façade of organized, gentlemanly perfection crack. 

“ _Peut-être_ ,” he replied.  “You took a long time coming.” 

Arthur’s mouth twitched.  “I came here as soon as I was released.” 

“Thirty-one days after I first met you.  That is a long time.  How was prison?” 

“About as enjoyable as one might expect.”

“Are you complaining?”  Francis drew close and began unbuttoning Arthur’s jacket.  He stiffened for a moment under Francis’ hands but quickly relaxed.  His fingers made quick work of the brass buttons.  They desperately needed polishing.  Gently, he slid the wool off Arthur’s shoulders and let it fall to the floor.  Arthur did not move.  Their eyes met.  Desire and love shone in those green orbs.  Reaching out, Arthur wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close until their bodied melded against each other. 

“I would do it again,” he whispered against Francis’ ear.  His breath was warm. 

“Would you really, my brave lieutenant?”  Arthur shook his head. 

“I’m not a lieutenant any longer, I’m afraid,” he said.  The disappointment weighed heavily on him. 

“An overreaction by your superiors.  You did not deserve that.”  He needed to cheer Arthur up.  Sadness did not flatter his face.  “Come!”  He took Arthur’s hand and pulled him to the bar.  “A drink for my sailor.  _Mon brave_.” 

“Does your German friend serve ale in this place?” 

Francis searched the rows of bottles.  “Gilbert would be the first to tell you that he is Prussian, not that it makes much of a difference.”  His nose wrinkled at the thought of serving Arthur something so unrefined, but he would make an exception, just this once.  He poured a glass and handed it to him.  “See how you like this.”  He watched Arthur take several long swallows and found himself drawn to the delicate muscle movements in Arthur’s neck.  He could not see enough of it.

“That’s good,” Arthur remarked, setting the glass down.  A bit of foam clung to his upper lip.  Unable to resist, Francis leaned over and wiped it off with his finger.  Arthur grabbed his hand and ran his tongue along the digit.  Francis nearly moaned. 

“I had hoped you would be here,” Arthur said, releasing his hand.  “I wanted to see you again before I left.”

Francis frowned.  “Left?  What do you mean?” 

“There is a ship waiting to take me back to England.  I should have reported to it immediately, but I had to come here first.”  Arthur leaned forward.  Francis angrily pushed him away.  

“You are leaving,” he said, his voice low.  “After all that happened, you are leaving.”  Fury and resentment bubbled inside him.  

“It is my duty, you layabout.” 

“Duty?  Oh yes, duty,” Francis sneered.  “She is such a demanding mistress.  Few can resist her charms or lack of them.”  Folding his arms across his chest, he began to pace.  He should have foreseen this.  Anyone who had looked at Arthur would have instantly recognized what was most important to him.  Arthur would never set that beautiful wildness in him free.  Naïve fool.  Naïve repressed fool.  Francis felt incredibly foolish.  Why had he wasted so much time on the stiff sailor? 

“ _J’étais vraiment trop bête_!” he exclaimed.  “I spent days thinking and dreaming of you.  I thought I was in love with you.  That was a mistake.”  Did Arthur truly expect him to wait at the docks like a lovelorn girl as he sailed all over the world?  To be his patient, solitary little lover for months, even years on end?  Francis refused.  “I have been thinking about returning to France.  In that case, this is settled.”  He shooed Arthur away.  “Go back to your home and your mistress, _Anglais_.  She is waiting for you.  We will not meet again.  _Adieu à vous_!” 

Arthur looked stricken.  “You think I do not love you?”  Francis did not reply.  “Very well then.”  In three quick strides, he walked over, scooped his jacket off the floor, and threw it at Francis.  He caught it easily.  The woolen garment was heavy in his hands.  Curious, Francis began feeling inside it.  It held nothing of note: coins, slips of paper, some string, a handkerchief.  His fingers found themselves diving in the left breast pocket.  They touched something thin and dry.  Francis swallowed heavily.  Carefully, he pulled out a preserved red rose.  The leaves were gone, and the petals had flattened and darkened, but the flower was in remarkable condition.  Francis stared at it wordlessly.  Reaching over, Arthur gently enclosed Francis’ fingers around the stem. 

“I kept it while I was in prison.  My sister taught me how to preserve flowers when I was young.  Look at me, Francis.”  Francis raised his eyes to Arthur’s.  They blazed with arduous longing.  “The rose faded and dried, but still I kept it.  The fragrance never left.  Too many times, I held it and breathed in its scent.  I could almost imagine it was you.  I thought of many things in that cell, but you were always there, lingering in my mind.  My constant companion.  How I hated you.  What gave you the right to come into my life and turn everything upside down?  I thought I was happy before I met you; I was not.  I had never tasted true bliss before that day.  I was such an idiot because all I could hope for was just to see you again.  Well, now I have.”  He withdrew his hand and turned away.  “If you want to go back to France, go.  Just remember that you will always have an English sailor’s heart in your hands.” 

Francis took several deep breaths.  He lightly touched the rose.  “ _Mon ange_ ,” he began, “dance with me.” 

“What?” 

Stepping out from behind the bar, Francis extended his arms.  “Dance with me.”  Slowly, Arthur approached him.  His tongue ran across his lower lip. 

“We have no music,” he said, placing his hands on Francis’ hips. 

“That can be fixed.”  Francis wordlessly began to sing an old romantic song.  They swayed together, their bodies warm.  Arthur’s half-closed eyes were dark.  His hands traveled up and down Francis’ back, his touch light and soft.  It was as good as Francis remembered it.  He had not realized how much he wanted this.  Arthur squeezed his waist, and Francis tipped back his head, nearly laughing with delight.  Immediately, Arthur pulled his face towards his.  His fingers tangled in Francis’ hair.

“Look at me,” he whispered. 

“With pleasure.  His lips brushed against Arthur’s ear.  “I dance in your honor.”  Shuddering under his touch, Arthur kissed Francis’ neck.  Francis closed his eyes and pulled him closer. 

“Arthur,” he breathed, “what if you did not have to return?” 

“That is a nice thought, but it is a fantasy.”  He gently nipped Francis’ jaw. 

“But what if it was true?  What if you did not go to your ship?” 

Arthur shifted, and Francis bemoaned the loss of his lips.  “It is not that easy, Francis.” 

“How?  You simply do not go.  How is that difficult?”  Arthur did not reply.  Reaching up, he loosened Arthur’s tie.  It fluttered to the floor.  “We could travel together.  You and me and the world.  We could live by the sea if you wanted.  Think of it, Arthur.  No duty, no superior officers that do not appreciate you, no voyages that take you from your lover for months and years.”  He cupped Arthur’s face in his hands.  “Just freedom and love.  Will we need anything else?” 

“You are asking me to desert and leave everything?” 

“I would not offer if I thought you did not want it.” 

Arthur sighed.  “It is not that I don’t want it.  It’s just…” he trailed off. 

“What?”  To his surprise, Arthur laughed. 

“This is too unreal.  It’s like a dream.” 

Francis smiled at that.  “Let me show you this is real.”  He pressed his lips against Arthur’s.  Immediately, Arthur’s embrace tightened.  He gripped Francis tightly, as if he never intended to let him go.  Burying his fingers in Arthur’s hair, Francis ran his tongue along Arthur’s lips.  He moaned, and Francis greedily delved into the warm heat of his mouth.  It was too perfect, too delicious.  He needed more.  Breaking the kiss, Arthur threw his head back, exposing his neck.  Francis latched on, licking and sucking until Arthur gasped.  The sound stirred a delightful hot passion in the depth of his stomach. 

“Oh, I think we are interrupting something.”  Startled, Arthur immediately jerked away.  His face turned a deep, rich red.  Francis suppressed a laugh at the sight.  Turning, they saw Timo, Simeon, Mihai, and Natalia watching them with a mix of astonishment and curiosity.  Timo was smiling. 

“I apologize if we disturbed you, Francis,” Simeon said.  “We heard voices, and we came to check what was going on.”  He glanced at Mihai. 

“Of course you did,” Francis replied.  “I should have remembered you were here.”  He looked at Arthur, whose cheeks had lightened to a dark pink.  “Shall I make introductions, then?  Arthur, this is Timo, Simeon, Mihai, and Natalia, or Natasha if you are either her brother or a fool.  _Mademoiselle, messieurs_ , this is Arthur.” 

“Your sailor?” Mihai asked. 

“How did you know about that?” 

Mihai shrugged.  “I have a way of finding out things. 

Arthur frowned.  He eyed Natalia warily.  “Who are you?” 

“In a word?  We are smugglers,” Simeon replied. 

“I am also a toymaker,” Timo piped up.  “It supplements my income.” 

“Oh.”  His eyebrows rose. 

Natalia continued to stare at Arthur.  “If he knows about us, can we trust him?” 

“If he is a friend of Francis’, of course,” Timo told her. 

“Although he is not harmless,” Mihai said with a grin.  Francis noticed Arthur bristle at the scrutiny.  His hand wrapped around Arthur’s wrist.  Arthur glared at him.  Francis winked. 

“How is it back there, Simeon?” Francis asked. 

“Uneventful.  Feliciano and Valentino arranged the new shipment all right, and Beilschmidt is paying Mr. Braginski now.  For once they did not fight over the cost.” 

“That is new.”  Gilbert could be so particular about money except when he spent it. 

“It will not last,” Mihai remarked. 

The door opened.  Oxenstierna entered and hurried down the steps.  “Forgot my coat,” he announced to no one in particular.  At the base of the stairs, he froze.  

“Timo.”  

In a moment, Natasha stood behind him, a knife at his neck.  “One word and I will slice your throat open.”

“Let’s get him to a chair.”  Simeon moved to help her.  He bound Oxenstierna’s hands and sat him down.  Natalia remained close, her expression cold.  Oxenstierna said nothing.  His face was impassive, but his eyes remained fixed on Timo.  Timo did not move. 

“My dear officer, love played a dirty trick on you,” Mihai declared, his gaze flickering between Oxenstierna and Timo.  “You arrived at a very bad time.” 

“What’s going on,” Gilbert asked, exiting the storeroom.  He spotted the bound lieutenant.  “Oh _mein Gott_.”

Feliciano’s hands shot in the air.  “I only helped move some things.  Please don’t arrest me.” 

“I’m not sure he is going to be doing any arresting now, Feli,” Valentino said. 

The look in Oxenstierna’s eyes was painful to see.  Francis liked the lieutenant, for all his stiffness and piercing gaze, but he knew Oxenstierna was now in a very dangerous position.  Braginski would react accordingly.  Francis wondered what Arthur was thinking.  Heart pounding, Francis glanced at him.  His breathing was heavy, his eyes wide.  But they also held a steeliness that Francis did not expect.  Another thing he should have anticipated from his sailor.  Francis squeezed his hand; Arthur returned the pressure. 

“Vanya, what do we do?” Natalia asked. 

“We could take him with us,” Simeon suggested. 

“It is too much trouble,” Mihai replied.  “He will be a burden.” 

Braginski regarded Oxenstierna for a moment.  His eyes shone.  Oxenstierna refused to look up at him.  “I am sorry.  Truly.  You are a good officer, but you have terrible timing.”  Shaking his head, he turned to the others.  “Feliciano, Valentino, I am afraid you’ll have to come with us, for now.  Francis you too, and….”  He frowned. 

“My name is Arthur.” 

Braginski nodded.  “Hello,” he said with a small, charming smile.  “You will come as well?” 

“Yes, not that I have much of a choice.”  Francis looked at him apologetically.  Arthur gave him a small smile.  He did not let go of his hand. 

“Well, that settles it.”  He returned to Oxenstierna.  “Now for you.” 

“Ivan, please let me do it,” Timo volunteered.  His eyes were wet.  Braginski shook his head.

“I am sorry, Timo, but I think that if I left you here, our lieutenant friend would walk out of this room alive.  You know that cannot happen.  No, I will take care of him.”  He drew out a long pipe.  “Go on ahead.  Mihai, Simeon, look after Timo.  I will meet you all later.” 

“Braginski, do not get blood on my floor,” Gilbert demanded. 

“Do not worry, Beilschmidt.  Everything will be all right.” 

The trapdoor opened.  Simeon grabbed Timo’s wrist and pulled him down.  Natalia led the way, Mihai close behind her.  The door slammed shut, enveloping the group in darkness.  Valentino lit a lamp, but it illuminated little.  They walked forward quietly.  Francis could hear Feliciano’s rapid breathing.  He closed his eyes and sighed.  He had everything he wanted.  Freedom, open skies, good companionship, love.  The world was his country, and he had Arthur to enjoy it with.  Then why did he feel a disgusting numbness twisting inside him?  It swept through his blood, making him slightly nauseous and tired.  He hated it; he needed to make it disappear.  Francis gripped Arthur’s hand so tightly it hurt.  Arthur stopped and reached forward.  He felt Arthur’s fingertips on his face, lightly tracing his features.  Francis leaned into the touch.  Opening his eyes, he met Arthur’s gaze.  His green eyes gleamed. 

Wrapping his arms around Francis’ neck, Arthur pulled his body close and kissed him hard in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shivvy, Shivvy, don’t kill me! I know how much you love Sweden, and I kind of feel guilty about doing this to him. Don’t worry, I promise you happy Sweden for Hanukkah. Also, I need to thank you for helping me out with that one French phrase. I feel like I cheated a bit, but I hope you didn’t catch on to what I was doing. 
> 
> A few more names in this chapter. Mihai is Romania, and Simeon is Bulgaria. Valentino is Seborga, who for purposes of this fic is Feliciano’s cousin rather than his brother. I went with the Timo spelling for Finland’s name, and of course, Bondevik is the last name of our (previously unnamed) Sergeant Norway. Anna is my OC for Czech, or Bohemia as the region would have been known as during the time this is set.
> 
> Those with a familiarity with Carmen might have noticed that I took the liberty of using a few lines from the libretto. Also, bonus points for anyone who guesses where Francis’ little song about the matador from Seville comes from. (Hint: it’s by an Italian, and we’ll be hearing a bit more from it later.)


	3. Act III

“Are you awake?” 

Francis shifted at the feeling of warm breath at his ear.  It dusted over his skin, delighting him and stirring a rich feeling of desire deep in his body.  Smiling, he buried his head in his little pillow, pretending to still be asleep.  Gentle fingers pulled his hair off his face, and Francis nearly moaned at the touch.  He tried to make it sound like one of the many soft groans and murmurs people utter when deep in sleep, but Francis knew his lover had seen through the act.  He felt him bend close again. 

“I know you are, you silly frog.”

Francis moaned again, too loudly to be realistic and made a great show of moving around.  He flopped over on his side, letting the blankets slide down his chest.  The sudden exposure raised gooseflesh on his arms, but Francis had a plan to take care of the chill.  Opening his eyes an imperceptible crack, he watched Arthur lean over, one arm placed on either side of Francis’ torso.  He waited for a moment as Arthur stared at him with a mixture of frustration, curiosity, and amusement.  Arthur nudged his shoulder.  Francis did not move.  Arthur studied his face.  Francis shut his eyes and put all his effort into not bursting out laughing.  Arthur kissed the tip of his nose, but Francis only squirmed a little.  Arthur shook his head. 

“I’m not giving up, you know.”  When Francis still made no reply, Arthur sighed heavily and began to pull away.  “Fine.  Have it your way.” 

Time to strike. 

Throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck, Francis jerked forward and kissed him deeply.  Arthur froze for a moment before his eyes slid closed, and he wrapped his arms around Francis’ body.  Francis pulled him down.  His fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair.  He relished the feeling.  Arthur gripped him tighter, and Francis moaned once more, completely honest and genuine this time.  The sound sent a shudder through their bodies. 

“I knew you were playing,” Arthur said the moment their lips parted. 

“Only because it is so much fun,” Francis replied. 

“Am I?” 

Francis stared at those vivid green orbs.  How he loved the way the light shone in them.  They were a mirror to his every emotion, and Francis could easily see them flicker and dance.  He saw love, desire, delight, and insecurity; the last puzzled him.  What had he to feel insecure about?  He cupped Arthur’s face in his hands. 

“I do not play with you.  I never did.”

“All right, then.”  Arthur laced their fingers together.  He lay kisses on each of Francis’ knuckles.  “I am sorry.” 

“For what?” 

Arthur shrugged.  “This.  I don’t think this is what we had in mind when we decided to run away.  I suppose it could be worse, though.  We could be in jail or separated.  The company isn’t too bad, either, although Braginski is…” 

“He has his ways,” Francis finished for him. 

“Yes.”  Arthur slowly ran his hands over Francis’ bare chest.  “I just…I had hoped that we could…you know…” he trailed off.  Francis waited for him to finish.  “I had hoped our first two months together wouldn’t be among a band of smugglers.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t care where we would have gone.  The city, the country, the coast, wherever you like; it doesn’t matter to me.  I just wish I could have given you better.” 

Francis pressed his lips to Arthur’s forehead.  “ _Oui_.  But I do not think about that, and it does no good wondering about how things could have been.  As long as I am with you, we could be anywhere, and it would be all right.  This is not ideal, but it gives us all we need.  Besides, _mon amour_ , it is only temporary.  We will not be here forever.”  He laughed.  “I certainly do not want to be.” 

“Neither do I,” Arthur replied.  His eyes glinted.  “Come here.”  Pulling Francis into his lap, Arthur began placing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses on his chest.  Francis threw his head back, succumbing to the pleasure.  He gripped Arthur tightly.  Splashes of color flashed behind his eyelids.  He could not get enough, even as passion and adoration filled him to the brim.  He needed more, more until the pigments ran and mixed, blurring details and creating something entirely different.  His nails lightly raked down Arthur’s back.  His lover moved up to his neck, sucking and biting, the scrape of his teeth sending shivers down Francis’ spine.  There would be a mark, but Francis did not care.  Tilting his head, he kissed Arthur’s temple. 

“Kiss me,” he whispered. 

“I am.” 

“You know what I mean.”  With a bemused smirk, Arthur raised his head and kissed him chastely.  Francis raised an eyebrow.

“Is that all?” 

“You distracted me.”  Another kiss. 

“I did not.  I know you are more than capable of doing more than one thing at once.” 

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”  Arthur nuzzled his cheek.  “Are you cold?” 

“I was.  I am much warmer now.” 

“Oh,” Arthur replied.  “Do you mind if I get an extra blanket?  I think Simeon has one.”  He rose and slipped on his trousers and shirt.  Francis watched as clothing slid over skin.  Briefly, he mourned the loss of Arthur’s bare body.  “I think I spent too much time in the tropics.  My blood has grown thin,” Arthur announced.

“You will get used to it again.  I doubt there is much difference between here and the highlands of Scotland.” 

“I always preferred Tintagel myself.”  He smiled.  “I will only be a moment.” 

The thought of Arthur in the darkness churned a strange feeling in Francis’ gut.  He wrapped his arms around himself.  “Watch your step, Arthur.” 

“What?  Of course I will—oh.” 

A chilly hush fell over them at the memory of Timo.  After their escape, he had become withdrawn and isolated.  He rarely spoke.  He never smiled.  Even Francis and Feliciano could do nothing to comfort him or alleviate his guilt.  The light had disappeared from his eyes.  “I betrayed him,” he told Francis once.  “I loved him, and he loved me, and I used him and betrayed him.  Everything I do reminds me of what happened.  It is unbearable.”  Timo kept to himself, but Braginski’s older sister looked after him, making sure he ate and slept.  And then one night Ekaterina screamed that Timo had walked off the cliff face.  Walked.  Not tripped, not stumbled, not fell.  Walked.  Francis knew what Timo had done; they all did, even if they did not want to say it.  Francis only wished he had found some sort of peace. 

“I promise I will be careful.”  Arthur turned to exit the tent but stopped.  He fixed his eyes on Francis, and they blazed with intensity. 

“I love you.  I will love you until I die.” 

Francis stared at him.  “ _Je t’aime_ ,” was his only reply.  

With that, Arthur smiled at him again, a gentle, sweet thing, and disappeared through the tent.  Francis’ gaze remained on the spot he had stood.  _I will love you until I die_.  Francis did not know what to think about that.  Of course, it was wonderful to be in such a devoted relationship.  Francis deeply loved Arthur; he was attractive, passionate, amusing, delightfully fiery.  He was a joy to be with.  Francis relished their time together.  But until death?  He had never been involved with someone with such commitment, and it took him by surprise.  All his previous romantic entanglements had been short, rich, most of them not living longer than mayflies.  With Arthur, it was different, and he knew it.  They had both sacrificed too much for this to be so casual.  But feelings and emotions ebbed.  Romance faded and changed into something else.  Did Arthur truly expect them to remain lovers forever?  Francis lay back and focused on the cloth walls surrounding him. 

For the first time in years, he felt caged. 

. 

Brigid tightly pulled her shawl around her.  The wind blew hard, cutting into the dark wool and chilling her to the bone.  She focused on each step she took.  The edge of the mountain was too near and too steep for her liking.  Dusk was fading into night; soon the world would be cast in darkness.  Who knew what dangers and devilish humans lurked in this place during the evening.  Brigid did not like to dwell on it.  To think her little brother had fallen in with these people!  She could not bear the idea.  So she continued on, even though the thought of what she would encounter frightened her deeply.  But she could not turn back; she would not.  She would bring Arthur home.

Her hand rested on a small boulder.  She needed to rest.  Brigid looked up at the path that lay ahead.  The village children told her that the smugglers always went there to hide, rest, and gather their wits before moving on.  Brigid blew into her hands to warm them.  Children were such a wonderful source of information.  With the gift of sweets or a toy, most would solemnly keep secrets until a better deal convinced them to spill their information.  Brigid knew this well.  Christmas at home had frequently been a nightmare, with Emrys, Sean, and Andrew plying Artie with early gifts until he told them everything Brigid had planned to give them.  At least they did until Artie learned he could trick his brothers by promising to get them information and then telling them the exact opposite of what they wanted to hear.  Brigid always managed to slip an extra little present among Arthur’s for that.  She sighed heavily and felt tears prick her eyes.  When had everything gone wrong? 

She remembered receiving Arthur’s letter as vividly as if it were only yesterday.  His ship had arrived in port, but he had not been there.  None of his fellow crewmembers had been eager to talk about the reason for his absence.  Despite herself, Brigid had started to panic.  Where was her little brother?  Was he injured?  Sick?  Worse?  Her mind invented various terrible scenarios that had befallen Arthur and only made her intense worry worse.  Finally, one of the midshipmen of the _Lincoln_ took pity on her and placed a letter in her hands.  Brigid had ripped it open. 

_My dear sister,  
_

_I have done something you will probably think is very stupid.  I am in prison.  I will spare you the details of what happened, but I do not regret a thing.  It might not seem like it, but I am very happy.  I suppose you might consider this a goodbye to you and our brothers.  Please do not try to find me.  I am sorry for any trouble this might have caused.  
_

_Your loving brother,_

_Arthur  
_

_P.S.  Please tell Angelique she can keep the ring.  
_

Arthur’s words had stunned Brigid.  She was confused, hurt, furious, heartbroken.  Despite his plea, she immediately departed for Portugal, leaving Sean behind to explain things to their brothers and poor Angelique.  Once she arrived, the things she had discovered devastated her in a way she had not believed possible.  Arthur had interfered with an arrest.  His jacket had been found alongside a lieutenant with a bashed in head and a severely injured bartender.  The authorities did not believe him a murderer, but they thought he had joined a particularly dangerous band of smugglers.  And so Brigid went hunting, asking in villages if anyone had seen a young Englishman with blond hair and thick, dark eyebrows.  She followed any tip she received, not daring to ask for official help for fear of what might happen to her brother.  Running a hand through her curly hair, Brigid sighed heavily.  It had been a long eight months, but she would not give up.  Not until she brought Arthur home. 

She heard the sound of someone approaching.  Brigid stiffened.  In the fading light, she could barely make out the figure of a man.  He could be anyone: smuggler, villager, or someone unconnected with them both.  Whoever he was, he would not get a chance to harm her.  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pistol and cocked it. 

“Stop!” she called out.  “Reveal who you are, or I will shoot you!” 

“Gladly!” the figure replied.  Hands raised, he stepped forward until Brigid could see him clearly.  He was slender with tanned skin, dark curly hair, and vibrant green eyes.  He smiled at her.  “I am sorry I frightened you, _amiga_.  I mean you no harm.  My name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.  I am a _torero_ from Seville.  Perhaps you have heard of me?” 

“No.” 

“Oh.”  Antonio’s face fell.  “Well, I promise that I won’t do anything to hurt you.  I do not even have any weapons except this.”  He pulled out a small knife.  Brigid eyed him carefully.  His clothing seemed too tight for him to conceal anything else.  It already left very little to the imagination.  Antonio turned the handle towards her.  “If you do not believe me, here.  I have only come to see someone.  That is all.”  His eyes were earnest.  Brigid decided to trust him.  Decocking her pistol, she lowered it, although she maintained a firm grip. 

“You can keep your knife.  I am not one of them.  I am looking for someone too.” 

“What a coincidence!” Antonio exclaimed.  He moved closer.  “Do you mind if I sit with you?  It is very cold this evening, and they might be alarmed to see a fire down here.”  Brigid gestured beside her.  “ _Gracias_ ,” he said.  He looked at her curiously.  “Are you from England?” 

She nodded.  “I live in London.  I spent most of my childhood in Ireland, though.  My name is Brigid.”  She shook Antonio’s hand.

“Who are you looking for, Brigid?” 

“My brother.  He fell in with bad company.”  It was the easiest way to describe it.  Wherever she went in the little Portuguese town, one name had constantly been tied together with Arthur’s.  _Francis_.  A charming French artist with sun-spun hair and a voice like honey.  Brigid did not know what he had done to create this madness in Arthur, but she was determined to break the spell. 

“Who are you looking for?” she asked.

“Someone I love,” Antonio told her.  “I professed my feeling several months ago, but they were rejected.  I hope this time, it is different.  My love has only grown stronger since.”

Brigid patted his arm encouragingly.  “I hope it works out for you.  Good luck.”

“Thank you, _amiga_.”  Rising, he stretched out his hand.  “ _Senorita_ Brigid, we still have a ways to go, and the closer we get to their camp, the more dangerous it will be.  Would you like to travel together?”  Brigid mulled over his offer.  It made a lot of sense.  The darker it grew, the riskier the climb would become.  Guards for the smugglers could hide anywhere and pounce on them without warning.  An extra pair of eyes and ears would come in handy.  Brigid placed her hand in Antonio’s and stood up. 

“How kind of you, Mr. Carriedo.  Yes, let’s go together.” 

. 

“Thirty minutes everyone.”

Standing in the middle of the camp, Braginski surveyed the group of smugglers.  Most took the opportunity for a few more minutes rest, huddled in blankets to block out the cold.  Others tended the many packages or prepared their weapons.  It was a big shipment tonight with the promise of great rewards along with the equally great threat of being caught.  Not that that seemed to affect the others very much.  Francis spied Natalia busily sharpening her knife, while her sister calmly mended their clothes.  Feliciano and Valentino sat close by the fire, whispering eagerly.  Francis did not know how they could be so relaxed considering what could happen to them, but maybe he was the only one experiencing all the stress and pressure of the situation.  They had been through this many times before, after all.  Things just felt different tonight.  Although if Francis were honest with himself, he would admit that things had felt different for a very, very long time. 

Tearing his gaze away from the two young Italians, Francis glanced at Braginski.  His lavender eyes glinted in the night, and his pale hair stood out sharply in the darkness.  He looked like some eerie, enticing creature from a fairytale.  Francis’ fingers itched for a paintbrush.  He lowered his head.  A few strands of hair pulled out of his ponytail and rested on his cheeks.  Eight months.  Eight long months since he had done anything but sketch on loose, discarded pieces of paper.  There simply was not time for him to settle down with a palette and canvas and throw himself wholly into his art.  Francis clenched his fist, relishing the feeling of his nails pushing into his skin.  He could feel ideas churning inside his mind, forming shapes, mixing colors, twisting, struggling to burst from his body.  But they had nowhere to go.  And so they died, like grapes stuck on the vine.  Groaning to himself, Francis focused on tying the twine in a neat little bow.  If he could not create beauty elsewhere, he would at least focus on this.  “Look what you have been reduced to,” he told his hands. 

The sound of approaching steps drew his attention, and Francis raised his head to see Arthur and Simeon approaching Braginski.  They looked tired but alert.  Arthur’s hair stuck out messily from under his hat, making him look every bit the outlaw of the woods.  “Of course, that is what he is now,” Francis thought bitterly.  This was their life, and it had been for too long.  His eyes met Arthur’s, and they stared at each other for several minutes.  There was something irritating about Arthur’s gaze, like grit trapped in shoes.  His eyes confronted and challenged him.  He was probably still sulking over their little disagreement earlier; Arthur could cling to things for so long.  Refusing to rise to the bait, Francis turned away.  Even though he could feel his lover’s eyes boring into his back, Francis would not acknowledge him.  He did not want to deal with his lover at the moment. 

“Did you see anything?” Braginski asked them.  He rubbed his hands, looking more like an eager child than a man trying to keep out the cold.

“There are only a couple of customs officers below,” Simeon replied. 

“From what I could tell, they looked young, probably new recruits,” Arthur added.  “I don’t think they’ll be difficult to take care of.” 

“What do you want me to do, Vanya?” Natalia spoke up, the blade of her knife catching the firelight and shining dangerously. 

“Nothing so drastic, Natasha.  I expect these men are lonely and would prefer a kind word instead of a wound.” 

“A job for our lovely goddess of fertility then,” Francis announced.  Rising, he walked to where Ekaterina sat.  “Every soldier thinks himself a gallant lover, and who can resist the charms of Katyusha?”  Francis pressed his lips to her hand.  He noticed Arthur watching him disapprovingly, shaking his head.  Francis bit back a bitter little smile and lifted his eyes to the woman in front of him.  “Are you up to the task, great Katherine?”  Ekaterina blushed furiously and gently pushed him away.

“Francis, you tease too much,” she giggled.  Francis bowed, sweeping his arms back like a courtier at Versailles.  Bemused, Ekaterina shook her head and turned to her brother.  Her laughter disappeared. 

“Vanya, I do not want to go down there alone.”  

Braginski nodded understandingly.  “Natasha and Simeon will be with you.” 

“Will I also have to talk to the officers?” Natalia asked warily. 

“Two pretty women are better than one and far less suspicious,” Mihai remarked suddenly.  He studied a playing card intently before slipping it inside the deck.  “There might be someone who prefers women made of ice instead of the sun.”  Braginski glared at that, but Mihai paid him no heed.

“Mihai has a point,” he conceded.  “Natasha, would you please do it for me?”  Without a word, Natalia sheathed her knife and slipped it underneath her skirts.  Braginski smiled at her. 

“You should probably get moving.  We will follow in a few minutes.  If we are late, you know what to do?” 

“Keep them occupied until we see the signal.  Yes, Vanya, I understand.”  Standing on her tiptoes, Ekaterina kissed Braginski’s cheek.  “Be careful.  Do not take any unnecessary risks.”  Not to be outdone, Natalia threw her arms around her brother and held him tightly, pressing her head against his chest as if she wanted to crawl inside and live there.  Braginski froze, his body tense, before hesitantly patting Natalia’s back and hair.  For a moment, the three held each other in an awkward embrace.  Slowly, Ekaterina took Natalia’s hand and began to pull her away.  Natalia reluctantly followed, but her eyes remained fixed on Braginski. 

“Do not wait too long, Vanya,” she told him. 

“We will not.”  He nodded towards Simeon.  “Keep an eye on them.” 

“Yes sir.”  Scooping up a lantern, he glanced at Mihai. 

“Will it be all right?”

Mihai shrugged.  “I can see no reason why it would not be.”  That answer seemed to satisfy him.  Holding the lantern high, Simeon led the two sisters away.  Braginski watched until the trio gradually faded into the darkness. 

“They will be all right, Ivan,” Feliciano reassured him. 

“Yes,” Ivan agreed.  His voice was soft.  “Yes of course.  They can take care of themselves.”  He took a deep breath.  “Come on, everyone, we will have to get moving soon.” 

Francis returned to his work.  Lighting a cigarette, he held it between his lips as his fingers continued to secure the twine on the smuggled goods.  In the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur come near.  Francis took a long draw of smoke and waited.  His lover did not look happy.  Taking off his hat, Arthur squatted next to him and placed his rifle on the ground.  Francis could feel the heat of Arthur’s stare, but he ignored it.  Arthur was waiting for him to crack, to show some kind of emotion, reaction, or response.  “Let him wait all night then,” Francis thought.  He would not weaken.  If this was a contest to see who broke and spoke first, then Francis would win.  He had no desire to talk to Arthur.  Several moments passed in silence.  Finally, Arthur sighed and looked away. 

“What was that?” he asked. 

“What was what?” 

“You know what,” Arthur told him.  “You and Ekaterina.” 

“Oh,” Francis replied nonchalantly.  “Conversation, _mon cher_.” 

“Conversation my arse.  You were flirting with her.” 

“Arthur, if you already know what my actions were, then why are you asking me?  It seems like a waste of air.” 

“Because I want to know _why_.” 

“Then my answer is why not.  She is a pretty woman, and I like to see her smile.” 

“But did you have to do it like that?” 

“I see nothing wrong.  You saw me make conversation before we became involved.  You know it is my way, and I do not care what others think about it.  _Ce que je veux, c’est être libre et faire ce qui me plait_.”  He turned to Arthur and looked at him curiously.  “Are you perhaps feeling insecure again?  It seems to be growing worse lately.” 

“Shut up, Francis!”  The outburst drew attention.  Heads turned.  Arthur and Francis smiled awkwardly until the others grew bored and returned to their tasks.

“Do not tell me what to do.”  Francis hissed.  His temper flared.  “If you are so unhappy, why do you not leave?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Francis shrugged.  “Maybe.” 

Arthur shook his head.  “I am not going anywhere, you devil.” 

“And if I left you?”  The words came out before Francis could stop them.  Arthur’s eyes widened.  His chest heaved.  Francis could not tear his gaze away from the expression on his face. 

“Do not ask me that again, Francis.”  His voice was low.  Arthur rose.  He ran a hand through his hair.  It lay on his head like wild, untamed feathers.  “I have things to do.  We will talk later.” 

Francis sighed.  “Of course.”  Raising his head, he saw Mihai staring at him.  There was an odd look in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what was going on.  Of course, it was not hard to notice, even if Arthur tried to keep the deteriorating state of the their relationship a secret.  Francis pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.  They suddenly felt tired, probably because of his frustration.  How could something that had been so delightful change into something he had come to despise so?  The detail had been so lovely.  Now he saw too sharp edges, angles in the wrong places, mismatched colors.  It was a mess; there was no other way Francis could say it.  It repulsed him, even as it clung to his heart and skin.  Francis felt pinned, confined.  This was stifling.  He wanted to be rid of it.  He wanted to be free again.  Angrily, he shoved one of the packages away.  He did not know what was inside, but it could have shattered for all he cared.  Looking up, he saw Mihai still watching him.  Francis averted his eyes. 

“Mihai!” Feliciano suddenly exclaimed.  He hurried to the rock Mihai was perched on, Valentino in tow.  “Mihai, would you do a reading for us?” 

Mihai raised an eyebrow.  “And why would you want that?” 

“Because you predicted I would have a winning streak!” Valentino declared.  “My pockets are still heavy with money.” 

“I said you would be lucky because you are a talented and skilled gambler.  Anyone could have told you that.” 

“But I want to know.  Will I stay lucky?  How much more will I win?  Is there anything I need to look out for?” 

“Such specifics,” Mihai remarked.  He grinned.  “And you Feliciano?  What do you want to know?”

Feliciano shrugged.  “I just want to know a little bit about my future.” 

“Are you sure you will like what you hear?  These little beauties can be very dangerous.” 

“Maybe, but I think I can handle it.” 

“Very well.  Let us see.”  Feliciano and Valentino watched with wide eyes as Mihai swiftly cut, shuffled, and cut the deck again.  His fingers moved with careful precision and dexterity.  The sound of the cards bumping against each other filled the air.  Mihai smiled oddly while he worked, focus and concentration written plainly on his features.  With quick, smooth movements, he dealt the cards to the two Italians.  He flipped them up to reveal their faces.  He let out a murmur of interest. 

“I can read you both at the same time.  Feliciano, there is a reunion in your future.  Valentino, your winning streak will be broken.”  Valentino groaned, disappointed.  “You will meet a girl whose skill surpasses your own,” Mihai continued.  “Feliciano, you will win the heart of a brave and loving soldier.  He may appear gruff, stiff, and angry, but he is actually very caring.  He will adore you.  Hundreds of men will march at his command, and his leadership and skill will become famous.”  Mihai’s smile turned suggestive.  “You will enjoy each other’s pleasures both night and day.  As for you.”  Mihai returned to Valentino’s cards.  “Your victor is an heiress.  Despite your competition, you get along very well.  You move into her villa, and she will keep you in the manner you quickly become accustomed to.  Eventually, you will marry.”  

Shocked, Feliciano and Valentino stared at him.  Feliciano picked up one of his cards, the jack of hearts.  “Ve,” he said astonished.  “You could see all that from these?”  Mihai plucked it out of his hands and returned it to the deck. 

“Among other things, yes.  Now away with both of you.”  Reluctantly, the two left, chattering eagerly.  Francis shook his head.  They could be so cute. 

Deciding he had enough of tying packages, Francis wandered to Mihai’s rock.  His legs and spine thanked him; it was not comfortable to sit on stone for several minutes at a time.  He massaged the small of his back.  Mihai watched him approach, that strange, perceptive look still in his eyes.  He tapped the deck of cards in the palm of his hands.  “Would you like a reading too?” 

“No,” Francis replied.  “I do not have that much curiosity.”  He leaned against the rock.  “You have been watching,” he told him. 

“I watch everything.  That is why Braginski keeps me around.  What is on your mind?” 

“Oh nothing.  Everything just seems wrong now.” 

“A pity.  I like you both.”  Mihai set the deck down.  Francis picked it up. 

“Do you mind?” 

“Not at all.” 

Francis began shuffling the cards.  He pushed the stiff pieces of paper together, enjoying the resistance and friction of the two, half-sized decks as they merged.  His fingers needed something to do, and Francis admired Mihai’s effortless, practiced motions.  They were not difficult, but Mihai made it look like a skillful art.  Francis did it again and again, letting his mind wander.  He spotted Arthur by the fire, arms crossed and staring into the flame.  Francis wondered what was going through his lover’s mind.  Could he even still call Arthur his lover?  They were together, at least in name, and they still occupied the same tent, except for the times Francis decided to spend the hours with Feliciano and Valentino or Arthur volunteered for guard duty.  Those times were growing more frequent lately, he realized.  What was Arthur thinking about?  He knew the Englishman was still in love with him, and Francis…Francis did not know what he felt.  As much as he tried to ignore Arthur, he could not ignore the pangs and heaviness he felt in his chest whenever he thought about what they once had.  For a moment, Francis wished they could somehow go back to that evening in Gilbert’s place, when it had been just the two of them dancing alone in that large room.  Francis had been so happy then.  Why had things changed?

Casually he pulled three cards from the deck.  King of diamonds, ace of spades, queen of spades.  He regarded them curiously.  “Mihai,” he asked.  “Does each card have its own meaning?” 

“In a way.  Sometimes meanings change depending on the context.” 

“What does the ace of spades mean?”

Mihai stiffened.  “Why do you ask?”  Francis showed him the cards. 

“It can have multiple meanings,” he said after a long pause.  He took the cards and examined them closely.  “Did you draw all three of these?” 

“Of course.  Why?”

“It means nothing,” Mihai said softly to himself.  “The context is hidden.  It could mean anything.” 

A chill ran down Francis’ spine.  He shivered.  “Mihai, what does the ace of spades mean?”

“Death.  The ace of spades is the death card.” 

“I am going to die?”  Francis wrapped his arms around himself. 

“Of course you are going to die.  Everyone dies.”  He buried the cards deep inside the deck.  “Do not let it worry you.  The future is murky and full of contradictions.  Sometimes things might appear one way when they are actually the other.  Like mirrors.  And sometimes things that might seem certain change for the want of a nail.  Do not let it concern you.”  Mihai’s prominent tooth dug into his bottom lip.  “It is nothing.” 

“No, it is not.  Your cards are honest.” 

Francis wrapped his arms around himself.  His blood turned to ice.  It was not the idea of his mortality that frightened him.  He had painted death scenes, and he knew his death was an eventual certainty.  It was the unexpected confrontation that shook him to his very core.  How could he die?  He was perfectly healthy.  His current life was a dangerous one, but he never took any unnecessary risks.  What about Arthur?  Francis had drawn three cards, and he guessed they had symbols too.  Could the king of diamonds and queen of spades refer to him and Arthur?  The ace of spades had been lodged neatly between them.  Did that mean they both would die?  It made sense, although Francis dared not question Mihai about it.  The thought of looking at another card made his stomach twist. 

Near the fire, Francis heard Feliciano and Valentino talking about their promised futures.  “Lucky boys,” he thought sadly.  Fate seemed to have smiled on them.  They had nothing to fear.  But for him…for him it was so different.  “ _Fatalité_ ,” he whispered.  “You capricious mistress of our destinies.  You carve our lives into stone walls and hide the stories from us.”  He ran his hands through his hair.  “How quickly things melt away.”  He raised his head and looked up at the night sky.  The stars glittered down on him, like eyes that saw inside his mind and read his thoughts as clearly as if he had laid them on the ground.  His fingers wound around strands of his hair and pulled until it hurt.  The image of that dark spade hung in his memory.  It stood like a boulder lodged into a train tunnel.  He could not get out.  There had to be a way to escape or delay the inevitable.  He needed to find a way. 

“Imagine it, Feliciano!” Valentino exclaimed.  “I am going to be the husband of an heiress!  I wonder if she is pretty.  Mihai did not say anything about that.”

Feliciano giggled.  “You are going to have to be careful.  What if her father and brothers do not like you?  You will have to deal with them.” 

Valentino shrugged.  “It will not be the first time a Vargas has faced overprotective relatives!” 

Arthur’s head snapped up.  “Vargas?” he asked as if suddenly remembering something.  He looked at the two Italians.  “Are you by any chance related to Guiliano Vargas?” 

“Ve, yes!” Feliciano exclaimed excitedly.  “He was my grandfather.  Did you know him?” 

Arthur shook his head.  “No, one of my brothers is an art dealer.  He mentioned him often.” 

“Truly?  How funny.  It is almost like we knew each other already.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is.”  Arthur frowned.  “Feliciano forgive me, but I have to ask.  Guiliano Vargas was a wealthy man.  How—?” 

“How did I end up here, you mean?  It is a long story.” 

“I think we have time.”  Feliciano patted an empty space beside him.  Arthur sat down.  Feliciano glanced at Valentino before lacing his fingers together.  He took a deep breath. 

“I had a brother.  Lovino was his name.  You might have heard me or Big Brother Francis mention him.  After our parents died, Nonno raised us.  He taught us everything he knew, painting, sculpture, appreciation, collecting.  He made sure our education was very well rounded.  When he died, Lovino and I inherited his money and estate.  I admit, we were not as careful with our fortune as we probably should have been.  But we had so much fun.  Lovino had houses in Naples and Sicily, and I had ones in Venice and Florence.  And we shared one in Rome.  It might have been a little extravagant, but we were talented in our own right, and people liked our paintings.  Society loved us.  I was always very cheerful and gracious; it is just the way I am.  Lovino, though, he could be aggressive, sarcastic, and defensive.”  Feliciano let out a little laugh.  “People used to call us Michelangelo and Raphael because of our different personalities.”  He sighed.  “And there were so many parties.  Oh Arthur, those parties.  The gold and candlelight and the laughter.  The lace and the jewels glittered in the night, and we danced and drank champagne until we collapsed with delight.”

“It was at one of those parties that Lovino met Antonio, a matador from Spain.  They fell in love.  Lovino was absolutely taken with Antonio, and Antonio worshiped Lovino.  They decided to live together, so they moved to Spain.  I think those days they shared together were bliss.  Lovino’s letters were always pouring with happiness, even though he tried to hide it as well as he could.  He never did a very good job.  Then one day, a Dutchman came to visit Lovino while Antonio was out.  He had a sister, who had grown up with Antonio, and was concerned for her reputation.  Lovino was horrified.  He could not bear the thought of a lady suffering because of him.  After the Dutchman left, Lovino packed and returned to Rome.  He left Antonio a note, breaking off their relationship.  He began seeing a Turkish gentleman.  We did not know it at the time, but Lovino was already suffering from consumption.  There was a party, like those we used to have, but something was different that night.  Lovino came with the Turk.  He was so pale and drawn I was afraid he would collapse right there.  Antonio arrived too.  His eyes were cold.  His smile was hard.  I had never seen him so furious.  I tried keeping them apart, but somehow they managed to find each other.  Antonio practically dragged Lovino into the ballroom and threw money at him.  That was too much for Lovino, and he fainted.  I think in that moment, Antonio realized just how much he had hurt him.  But then the Turk challenged Antonio to a duel, and we had to carry Lovino out of there.” 

“Lovino’s health declined rapidly after that.  We sold so much to pay for the doctor’s bills, but they could find no cure.  Antonio discovered the truth of what Lovino did and hurried to see us.  It was too late.  Antonio fell on his knees, weeping and begging Lovino’s forgiveness.  In that moment, it seemed life had returned to Lovi.  They talked of returning to Spain and professed their love.  They both knew it would never be.  Antonio refused to leave his side.  My brother died in his arms.” 

Feliciano was silent for several minutes.  “We had just enough for a good funeral, but that was it.  We were badly in debt when Lovino died.  I sold everything.  Antonio offered to help, and I was grateful, but I did not want to be a burden on him.”  He squeezed his cousin’s arm.  “Valentino suggested I come live with him.  Of course that meant us traveling from town to town trying to earn money through his gambling and my art.  I did not mind; I needed the change.  And that is the way things have been for almost three years.”

“I am sorry,” Arthur replied quietly. 

“Please, do not feel like you have to apologize,” Feliciano said.  Quickly, he wiped a tear away.  “I miss my brother very much, and I wish things had happened differently, but it will get better.  Life never leaves you in one spot very long.” 

Arthur frowned.  “You are so optimistic.” 

“I have to be,” Feliciano said with a tiny smile. 

Braginski approached the small campfire.  “I am sorry to interrupt,” he began.  The Italians jumped at the sound of his voice.  “But we need someone to keep watch.  Arthur, do you mind?” 

“No, I do not.”  Rising, he slung his rifle over his shoulder. 

“Excellent.  Come, I will show you the best spot.” 

Francis swallowed heavily.  He did not watch them leave.

. 

Braginski was talking, but Arthur did not listen.  Other matters stole his concentration away, leaving Braginski’s words to enter one ear and exit the other.  Arthur knew that he probably was giving him helpful information about the paths that ran up the little mountain range and who typically frequented it.  He was going to regret not paying attention, but at the moment, Arthur could care less.  Maybe it had not been such a good idea to agree so readily to guard duty, but it was not like Arthur could simply refuse.  Who else would Braginski have chosen?  Mihai?  The Italians?  Francis?  Arthur immediately tried pushing the thought of his lover out of his head.  He was the most able man for the job; tonight just happened to be a bad time for something like this.  Still, Arthur relished the prospect of getting away from the camp, to just spend a little time alone in the darkness.  No stares, no arguments, no tension.  Perhaps the stillness would give him a much-needed opportunity to think.  He was desperate for one. 

“I found this is a good place,” Braginski instructed.  “The rock hides you from anyone approaching, but you can still see who is there.  It is very useful.” 

“Ah thank you,” Arthur replied distractedly. 

“You are welcome.  Now, what do you think of what I said?”

Surprised, Arthur looked at him.  Brilliant.  Now he would have to admit that he had not been listening.  “I’m sorry.  What?”  Braginski smiled at him as if he knew Arthur had been a million miles away mentally.  Arthur did not know what to think of that.

“I first asked if everything was all right.  And then I said that if there were any troubles, you should get them worked out soon.”

“Oh.”  Arthur licked his lips.  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.  Everything is fine.”

“Is it?” Braginski asked.  “I do not know much about love.  There was someone I was very attached to when I was young, but that was a long time ago.  I have no problem with you and Francis’ relationship.  But even I can see the strife arising.  It is not doing anyone any good.  So I will tell you again, Arthur.  Resolve your issues or break up, and do it soon before it becomes more of a distraction.” 

Arthur blinked.  “Of course.  Yes.  I will.” 

Braginski patted his shoulder.  His hand was heavy.  Arthur suppressed a shudder.  “I am glad you understand.  We will come to get you shortly.”  He stepped away.  “Oh, be sure to hide the lantern.  We would not want anyone to see it, right?” 

“Right.”  Braginski smiled at him once more and walked away.

Sighing, Arthur leaned against the large rock.  He tugged on his hair.  Were he and Francis that obvious?  He had tried his best to make it appear like nothing was wrong, but he obviously had not succeeded.  Arthur supposed he should have seen this coming.  Their camp was small; it was nearly impossible to hide anything.  At the very least, Mihai probably noticed and told Braginski.  He seemed to see everything, after all.  Arthur desperately wished he had not.  His problems with Francis were no one’s business but theirs.  Arthur wanted to keep things private until he figured out what was happening between them.  He did not need the rest of the camp watching them with inquisitive eyes or giving “helpful” advice.  They could manage just fine on their own, thank you very much. 

Except they were not on their own, and they never had been.

If they had been able to slip away to parts unknown like they had wanted, would things have been different?  If that lieutenant had never entered the bar, would things have been all right? 

“It is no good to dwell on what could have been,” Arthur told himself.  “It helps nobody.”  He folded his arms over his chest.  What had happened, happened, and neither he nor Francis could change it, no matter how much they wanted to.  Besides, lots of couples did not have their dreams handed to them the moment they began their lives together.  They had to work and save and sacrifice, and then maybe they achieved what they wanted.  But even if they did not, it did not mattered because they had each other.  “So why is it different for us?” Arthur wondered.  It was not due to lack of love.  Arthur loved Francis with every fiber of his being.  He adored the way Francis’ eyes lit up when he smiled, his lilting voice, his laugh, his hair in the light of the sun or moon, his sleek body, his long fingers, the way he moved.  He delighted in whatever made Francis happy.  Arthur knew he would do anything for him.  He only wanted Francis to love him in return, to be his.  To be only his. 

But did Francis want that too? 

_What I want is to be free and to do what I like._

Francis had loved him; Arthur knew this.  He had ample opportunity to find someone else during that time Arthur had been in prison.  He had understood what Arthur’s preservation of the rose meant.  _He_ had proposed they run away together.  There was no question in Arthur’s mind that Francis had once returned his ardor as passionately as he had given it.  Then why had things changed?  Why did Francis seek affection elsewhere?  Did Arthur not give him everything he could desire?  Arthur remembered what he was like when they meet.  So languid.  So sensual.  So free to accept attention and devotion from others.  Arthur had thought things would be different.  That all that sweet fire would be directed at him and him alone. 

But that had been a dream. 

_“I did love you once.”  
_

_“Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.”  
_

Arthur clenched his fist.  He would not be Ophelia, sinking into the watery depths as flowers fell around her.  The girl had died of love, letting her mind shatter as her prince broke her heart again and again.  He was different; he was stronger than that.  He would keep Francis with him.  He would rekindle and retain his love. 

He would not drown. 

The sight of two dark shapes caught his attention.  Arthur squinted in the darkness, but he could make out no details.  Grabbing his rifle, he fired, aiming above the figures’ heads.  He heard a shout.  Arthur raised his lantern.  He saw someone approach. 

“Who’s there?  Identify yourselves, or I will shoot again!” 

“ _Amigo_ , please, no more guns!  I promise I am completely harmless.”  Arthur could see a man coming towards him.  He held his hands high above his head.  He smiled nervously at Arthur.

“Who are you?” Arthur asked.  He kept his rifle trained on the man. 

The man sighed.  “My name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.  I am a _torero_ ,” he said like it was an over-rehearsed script.  Arthur frowned.  _Torero_ was just another name for matador.  Antonio the matador.  Could he be the same Antonio Feliciano had talked about?  It was certainly a coincidence. 

“Well, Mr. Carriedo, your direction skills are somewhat lacking.” 

“Are they?  That is odd.  I thought I would find Braginski’s band of smugglers here, but maybe I made a wrong turn.  You are not with another band of smugglers, are you?” 

Arthur lowered his rifle slightly.  “Were you looking for Feliciano Vargas?” 

Carriedo’s face immediately lit up.  “So I did find the right place?  Excellent.  For a moment, you made me afraid I was lost.”  He shook his head.  “No, no, I’m not here specifically for Feli, although I will check on him.  I feel responsible for him in a lot of ways.”  He smiled faltered a little, as if he was remembering something. 

“I see.”  Arthur set his rifle down.  It was obvious Carriedo was no threat.  “Are you alone?  I thought I saw someone with you.” 

“No, no, I am alone,” Carriedo said quickly.  “I traveled by myself.” 

“Hmm,” Arthur murmured.  It was true only Carriedo stood before him, but Arthur would have sworn he had seen someone else.  “The night plays tricks with the eyes,” he remarked.  “You took a risk coming here like you did.” 

“Yes, but it was one I was willing to take.  Who does not risk everything for love?” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, you are interested in one of us?  Who, may I ask?” 

“No, it is all right.  His name is Francis.” 

“Francis.” 

“Yes,” Antonio continued.  “We have been friends for years.  Then friendship turned to love on my part.  When I told him about it, he said he was in love with someone else.  It must be over by now, though.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

“Well, Francis is a very passionate creature.  He thrives on love and romance, but his affairs rarely last six months.”  He laughed. 

Arthur felt his lips pull back in a wide grin.  He moved close to Carriedo.  The Spanish man watched him warily.  “And what do you plan to do if Francis accepts you?” 

“I thought we would go live in my house in Seville.” 

Arthur’s smile did not falter.  He reached inside his pocket.  “Well, since you are planning to take him away, I will tell you there is a price.” 

“Name it.” 

“A fight to the death.” 

Carriedo looked perplexed.  “A fight to the death?  That seems extreme.”  He nodded, comprehending.  “Oh I think I see now.”  He lightly pushed Arthur away.  “You are Francis’ lover, or you were his lover.  _Buenos noches_.  I am pleased to meet you.”

Arthur pulled out his knife.  He set his coat and jacket on the rock.  “I don’t want to hear your flattery.  I will make you pay with blood.” 

“We will see,” Carriedo replied, pulling out a knife of his own.  His eyes suddenly held a dangerous glint.  “You will find that I am very skilled with a blade.” 

Arthur lunged.  Carriedo jerked away.  He shot forward again.  Carriedo parried his thrust with ease.  Arthur seethed.  He needed to keep a level head.  He took a long, deep breath, but it did no use.  His blood boiled in his brain.  The thought of this man touching Francis, holding him, kissing him, laughing with him as they made love turned his vision red.  He slashed at him, but Carriedo ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding the knife slicing his neck.  Carriedo pushed forward; Arthur blocked his blow.  Never had he felt so furious, so desperate to kill, to remove his rival.  He wanted to see Carriedo motionless and bleeding.  He rushed to stab him.  Carriedo grabbed his wrist, pulling him close.  Arthur’s heart hammered in his chest.  He could see the gleam of their knives.  Arthur gritted his teeth.  He would not lose.  

In a swift motion, he slammed his forehead against Carriedo’s.  The Spaniard gasped.  His grip loosened.  Ignoring the flash of pain, Arthur pushed him away.  Carriedo stumbled back.  His foot slipped, and he fell to the ground.  He lay still.  Arthur ran to his prone form.  He raised his knife, ready to strike. 

“Arthur!”  

He froze.

“Brigid?” 

“Arthur.”  She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly.  Her curls tickled Arthur’s ear.  Shock overwhelmed him.  His mind buzzed with questions.  What was his sister doing here?  How had she found him?  What did she know?  Arthur’s arms lay limply at his sides.  He knew he should return the embrace, but he could not find the strength to move.  His eyes were wide, unfocused.  It had been so long since he had seen Brigid; he had almost forgotten her touch, the sound of her voice, the sweet scent of shamrocks in her skin and hair.  He felt so small, like a child again after his brothers’ teasing went too far.  

“Come on,” she whispered in his ear.  Her fingers found the knife in his hand.  “Give it to me.”  With gentle prying, she loosened his grip.  He let her take it away.  Quickly, she placed the blade on the rock, out of his reach.  Concerned, Brigid glanced at him before stepping towards the Spaniard. 

“Mr. Carriedo, are you hurt?” 

Propping up on his elbows, Carriedo waved her away.  He looked disoriented but not injured.  “Do not worry, _senorita_ , there is no damage.  It has been a long time since someone head-butted me so fiercely.  I am not used to it like I once was.”  He blinked at them several times.  “I should have known he was your brother.” 

“You know each other?” Arthur asked. 

“We’re vague acquaintances,” Brigid said.  “We met on the road and decided it was better to travel together.”  She cupped Arthur’s face in her hands and smiled. 

“Thank God and the saints I finally found you.  We have all been worried sick over what you had gotten yourself into.”  There were tears in her eyes.  “Well, it is no matter anymore.”  Brigid took his hand in hers.  “Let’s go home, _deartháir beag_.” 

Arthur shook his head.  “No.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m not leaving.” 

Brigid frowned.  “Why?”

“There is nothing for me at home.” 

“Nothing for—Arthur, what are you talking about?  Nothing for you at home?  No, I guess not.  Nothing but me, your brothers, and your fiancée.”

“I broke it off with Angelique.” 

“Oh no, you did not,” she said, shaking her head.  “You only told me in a letter she could keep the ring.  If you break off an engagement, you do it to the girl’s face.  Artie, she still cares about you very much.  She’ll forgive—.” 

“Well, that is her problem!” Arthur suddenly exclaimed.  “I never loved her.  Not truly.  It was not real love.” 

Brigid’s eyes flashed.  Her fingers tightened around his wrist.  “Then you will apologize for leading her on and abusing her hopes, Arthur Kirkland.”  Her voice was hard.  “I have heard enough.  We are going home.” 

“No!” 

“We heard a shot.  What is going on?” Braginski asked, hurrying towards them.  The others followed closely at his heels.  Francis’ eyebrows drew together slightly as he regarded the scene before him.  His arms folded over his chest. 

“ _Hola_ Francis!” Carriedo called. 

All traces of a frown disappeared from the Frenchman’s face.  “ _Bonsoir_ Antoine.  Should I have expected you would have something to do with this?” 

“Nonsense.  I only get into mischief when I know it will benefit me,” he said, getting to his feet.  His eyes were suddenly serious.  “I would like to talk to you, Francis.” 

“I am glad.”  Francis walked to him.  “I had hoped you might.” 

Gritting his teeth, Arthur averted his eyes.  Brigid kept a firm grip on his hand.  Her gaze flicked between him and Francis and Carriedo. 

“You can do that later,” Braginski told them.  “Right now, I would to know who you are, Miss.”  Brigid glanced at Arthur before letting go of his hand.  She stepped towards Braginski.  He towered over her, but she did not budge. 

“Are you Ivan Braginski?” 

“Yes, Miss.” 

“I am Arthur Kirkland’s sister, and I have come to take him home.” 

Arthur moved beside her.  “Braginski, my sister is mistaken.  I am not leaving.”  He glared at Francis.  “I am not going anywhere.”

“Arthur, do not make this difficult.” 

“I am not.  I am just telling you the truth.” 

“Why do you not go, Arthur?” Francis’ smooth voice asked.  

Arthur slowly stalked towards him.  “I told you only a little bit ago, that I am not leaving you.  Nothing has changed.”  Francis’ tongue darted out, quickly licking his lips.  He shifted closer to Carriedo.  Arthur’s fingers itched to rip the two apart. 

“Artie, listen to me.”  Brigid’s voice was soft.  “Forget about Angelique.  Forget about our brothers.  Forget about me.  But think about our mother.  Just for one minute.  Do you think she would be happy, knowing where you are?” 

“Brigid, please don’t bring Mother into this.”  He closed his eyes.  What was she doing?  It did not matter what their mother thought.  She was beyond all that and had been for years.  What good would it do to drag up her memory?  It would not save him; he was damned already.  His fate was bound with Francis’. 

“Well, I am.  Artie, she loved us so.   She did everything for us.  She sacrificed so much.  She had such big dreams.  Do you remember the books she read you before you were too young to know words?  The trips to the beach?  Seeing the old stones?  She wanted you to be great, like those kings in the poems and tales.  And look at what you’ve done.  Look at what you’ve gotten yourself into.  Mother always wanted you to be happy, but she didn’t want you to throw your life away!”  Brigid took a deep breath.  “I am only glad she cannot see what her son has become because it would break her heart, and she would not be as kind as me to your new friends.”  She laid her arm across his shoulder.  “If you ever loved her, if you have any respect for her memory, you will come home.” 

Arthur’s throat was dry.  What could he do?  Brigid was right.  His mother would grieve to see him like this.  His heart clenched painfully at the thought.  If he went with his sister, if he returned home, if only for a little bit, would that make things better?  

“Yes,” he whispered.  “All right.  Yes, I will go.”  He glowered at Francis. 

“ _Au revoir_ , then.  Are you satisfied?”

Francis smirked.  “I have to say, _Anglais_ , I expected it.  Although I did not anticipate you would be so tightly tied to your sister’s apron strings.” 

The crack of a slap filled the air.  Francis reeled back, a hand flying to his reddened cheek.  Brigid’s eyes blazed with anger. 

“May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil,” she cursed.  With firm pressure, she guided Arthur away.  His feet felt heavy.  She stopped in front of Braginski. 

“Mr. Braginsk, I hope you have no objections, but I will fight you if you do.” 

“He has none,” Mihai spoke up before Braginski could open his mouth. 

“Very good then.”  

The path was dark, lit only by the lantern Brigid held in front of them.  Arthur’s hands were cold.  He turned to see Francis, so close to Carriedo.  Their eyes met. 

_“You should not have believed me, for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it.  I loved you not.”  
_

_“I was the more deceived.”  
_

“Arthur,” Brigid’s voice whispered in his ear.  “Artie, come on.  He isn’t worth it.  Come on.” 

. 

Francis watched the two disappear into the night.  So that was that.  He was safe, at least for now.  His cheek still stung, a reminder of what he let go.  Well, it was for the best.  Francis looked at Antonio.  His face was alit with passion, concern, and anticipation.  The sight warmed him.  His friend was a wonderful person, and Francis cared about him deeply.  They were familiar with each other’s quirks and faults.  Antonio understood Francis, and Francis knew the inner workings of Antonio’s heart.  They could make this work, and it would be fun.  After all, they already enjoyed each other’s company and shared many of the same interests.  Maybe it was time for _l’amité_ to become _l’amour_. 

“Antoine, do you feel the same for me as you did at Gilbert’s?”

Antonio smiled.  “My love for you has only grown since then.” 

Francis smiled back.  It felt good.  “I am glad,” he said. 

He took Antonio’s hand in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might have thought Antonio and Lovino’s backstory sounded a little familiar, and you would be right. It was inspired by Verdi’s La traviata, which in turn inspired both Pretty Woman and Moulin Rouge!. It’s also one of my favorite operas.
> 
> “Ce que je veux, c’est être libre et faire ce qui me plait” is a line straight from Carmen’s libretto. It means (as Arthur later translates) “What I want is to be free and to do what I like.” Deartháir beag is Irish Gaelic for “little brother”.
> 
> Arthur is remembering a few lines from Hamlet’s infamous “Get thee to a nunnery” scene. I will say right now that the Shakespeare references will not end there. If you are familiar with Verdi’s later work, you might guess what’s coming next.


	4. Act IV

The key slipped into the lock with a soft click.  Quickly, he turned the handle.  So close.  He was nearly free.  His heart pounded with anticipation. 

“Arthur?”

Startled, he whirled around.  His elbow banged into a vase.  He caught it before it could crash to the floor and wake the whole house.  A lamp filled his vision.  Blinking several times, he tried to make his eyes adjust to the light.  Angelique stood in front of him, her hair loose.  She held her dressing gown closed with her other hand.  Her eyes were wide with concern.  Arthur sighed.  He had hoped he would be able to slip out unnoticed and undisturbed.  There was ship waiting for him; he could not delay.  If Angelique alerted his sister and brothers, then he would never get away.  He knew they would figure out where he was going, who he was trying to find.  They would never let him out if they saw him now. 

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

Arthur had no time for this.  “Angelique, please,” he began, biting down on the impatience rising inside him. 

“I know,” she interrupted.  “You do not have to say anything, but let me.”  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.  “I just want to say goodbye to you properly.” 

“I truly was looking forward to marrying you,” she began.  “We had such wonderful times when you visited my house.  I thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could be like this forever?’  When you proposed, I was overjoyed.  Of course I did not know what England would be like, but if you could live in my land, then I could easily live in yours.  It was just a question of adaptation.  But things change, and I understand that.  I will always fondly remember the times we had together.  Although, I will say that I would not marry you now because I know that you do not love me, and that would not be fair to either of us.”  She laughed softly.  “Francis sounds like someone very unique.  I expect I would like him, if I ever met him.” 

“You would, and Francis would like you as well.  He has an eye for lovely things,” he said.  Arthur’s heart felt heavy with guilt.  Angelique had deserved better, and what had he given her?  A broken heart?  Abandonment?  Pitiful gifts for his former fiancée.  “I have been so awful to you,” he whispered. 

“I am glad you admit it.”  She nodded.  “You better get going.” 

Arthur stared at her for a moment.  In another world, things might have worked out perfectly between them.  They would have married, have children, raise them near the sea, and tell them stories of pirates and brave admirals, mermaids and fierce storms.  He would be an admiral and give her all she ever wanted.  They would grow old together, happy in their little paradise.  Arthur imagined it easily.  How lovely things might have been, if not for that afternoon in the little Portuguese town.  That day had revealed a new path for him, and he had chosen to walk it.  Despite everything that happened, Arthur could not regret his decision. 

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I expect I will return home.  Your family has been so kind to me, but there is no reason for them to anymore.  I miss the sea.  The beaches are nice here, but they do not compare to the ones in my land.” 

“No, I suppose they don’t,” Arthur replied.  “They can be very cold.” 

She pushed a bit of her hair behind her ear.  “What are you going to do?” 

“I will find him,” Arthur said with determination.  His expression must have disturbed her.  Angelique looked up at him, her face full of worry.  

“Arthur, please do not do anything you will regret.”

He shook his head sadly.  The time for that had passed long ago.  “Love makes fools of all men, Angelique.”

“Does it really?” she asked.  She closed her eyes.  Rising to her tiptoes, Angelique kissed his cheek.  She lingered there for a moment before pulling away.  Arthur felt the heat of the lamp close to his face. 

“Goodbye, Arthur Kirkland.” 

. 

_Medias_.  _Taleguila_.  _Camisa_.  _Corbatín_. 

Francis watched as Antonio examined his reflection in the mirror.  The elaborate suit clung tightly to his lover’s body, the gold embroidery glistening whenever he moved.  It certainly was a sight fit for the gods, or rather, Antonio’s fellow countrymen.  In only a few minutes, he would parade into the ring, dazzle the audience with his stance, his daring, and his skill, and risk his life for their cheers and adoration.  Part of Francis felt a swell of jealousy at the thought.  How he would love for the two of them to remain in here and to watch Antonio prance around in the _traje de luces_.  No bull, no shouts, no ears or tails for prizes.  Just them together, alone, as Francis relished the feast for his eyes. 

Antonio’s fingers wiggled restlessly.  He stood stiffly, his eyes fixed on the makeshift altar placed in front of the mirror.  Tiny images of saints lay on the pure white cloth, and in the middle sat a small statue of the Madonna.  She balanced her Child on her hip, her robes sweeping out in graceful curves.  Her little gold crown gleamed.  Both Mother and Son looked back at him with sweet, gentle expressions. 

Slowly, Antonio crossed himself.  He kissed the images: St. Anthony, St. James, St. Francis, and the small medallion bearing the Vargas family crest.  His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath.  “I ask for your forgiveness for my human weakness,” he whispered.  He crossed himself again. 

Rising from his place on the sofa, Francis approached him.  He rested his hands on Antonio’s back, feeling the tense muscles underneath the silk and gold threads.  They remained silent, the sound of their breathing providing the only noise in the room. 

“ _Courage_ , _mon brave_.  You will be magnificent as always.” 

“Will I?” Antonio asked, an uncertain grin on his face.  “Thank you.” 

“You have done this a hundred times.” 

“And every bull is different.”

“I know.”  Wrapping his arms around Antonio’s waist, Francis pulled him close.  His cheek rubbed against the _chaquetilla_.  It was both rough and smooth against his skin.  Francis ignored the odd sensation.  “But you will have a grand victory,” he assured him.  “And after that, we will celebrate.” 

“Oh we will?” Antonio replied, that perfect, bright smile on his face.  “I look forward to it.”  He took Francis’ hands in his.  They were warm, just like the rest of Antonio’s body.  Sometimes, Francis wondered if his lover had been formed from sunlight.  Antonio thrived in it, and the sun always seemed eager to shine its rays down on him.  Tenderly, Antonio kissed Francis’ palms and wrists.  He lingered there for a moment, his lips resting against Francis’ pulse.  He looked up, and their gazes met in the mirror.  Antonio’s brilliant green eyes were serious. 

“Francisco, are you happy?” 

“I am,” Francis said.  “Truly, I am.” 

Antonio smiled at that.  “I am glad.  I would hate it if you were miserable.” 

“I could never be miserable with you.”  He squeezed Antonio a little tighter, earning a surprised chuckle.  “What about you, _mon amour_?  Are you happy?” 

“Do you even have to ask?” Antonio said, shaking his head.  “These four months have been the happiest of my life in years.” 

“Good.”  Francis kissed the sensitive spot behind Antonio’s ear, enjoying the way he squirmed and relaxed.  Grinning, he nipped lightly at his neck until the stiff collar interrupted his trail.  

“Stop that!” Antonio exclaimed, trying to hold back his laughter.  “You are distracting me!” 

Francis breathed in his ear.  Antonio shivered.  “Is that a bad thing?” 

“Yes!  I am trying to compose myself, and you are turning my mind to other things completely!” 

“Ah.  I do not understand how that can be so wrong.  But if you insist…”  Francis pulled away.  Antonio let out an odd groan at the loss of contact.  Biting his lip, Francis suppressed the urge to throw his head back and laugh.  Never would he have guessed that a relationship with Antonio would be this much fun or bring him so much personal pleasure.  Of course, he had thought that life would pass pleasantly for them both.  Even before that night on the mountain when he had made his choice to postpone fate and enjoy life a little longer, he could not deny that the idea of a romantic affair with his best friend held certain appeals.  Maybe some would say he had made a mistake, deepening a valued friendship and changing it into something else entirely, but Francis could not see harm in his actions.  His affair with Arthur had faded and died.  Mostly.  At the very least, what they once had had irrevocably changed, and Francis did not like what it became.  True, long term commitment unsettled him.  It might work for some, but Francis was not one of those people.  But the suspicion, the jealousy, the poisonous looks frightened him more.  He had needed to escape that.

And then Antonio returned to the scene at the perfect time.  Antonio, his wonderful, complex, perfect Antonio had offered him a new road.  Immediately, Francis took it.  He did not think much about the motivations behind his choice or what it might do to his friend.  He just slipped his hand into his new lover’s and hoped things would turn out all right.  Which they did.  Surprisingly, life did not change much for them.  They still drank, strolled through the streets, had picnics, and spent long hours talking about the things they enjoyed.  Only now, brief glances held heat, and late evening conversations dissolved into shared passion.  Antonio was very affectionate; Francis relished returning the caresses and kisses.  But he had also enjoyed when they confided in each other, telling thoughts and feelings during the quiet moments when they lay in the shade and their fingers brushed together.  There was something peaceful about those times that Francis came to cherish.  Yet, he did not dwell on the implications of his feelings, not until Antonio took him to his farm.  The sight of Antonio, dirt up to his elbows, battered straw hat on his head, and a blissful smile on his face, struck something deep inside Francis.  And he realized the unthinkable had happened. 

He had fallen in love with his best friend.

A loud knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.  “Listen, you two, you are going to be late!” Gilbert’s loud voice shouted.  “I am coming in, so you better be decent.”  Antonio and Francis shared a look, their eyes gleaming with mischief.  Quickly, they latched onto each other.  Francis hooked his leg around Antonio’s waist, careful not to wrinkle his suit.  Antonio’s hands dove under his jacket, gripping his hips firmly.  It was a scene straight out of some sensationalist, erotic print.  The door opened.  Gilbert’s mouth dropped open. 

“ _Gott_!”  His hand flew up to shield his vision.  “I gave you a warning.  The least you could do was heed it. 

“Why Gilbert?  You know we have never been one for rules,” Francis said.  Antonio laughed.  

Cautiously, Gilbert lowered his hand.  Realizing the two were not actually in the throes of passion, he sighed in relief.  “One day, I will accidentally walk in on you two and go blind as a result.” 

“How can a display of love and romance destroy your eyesight?” Antonio asked.  He and Francis broke their ridiculous embrace and moved away from each other. 

“It is possible, believe me,” Gilbert told him.  He gestured to the open window.  “The crowds are lining up.  You can’t take a step without someone trying to sell you something.” 

Francis adjusted his tie.  “Are Feliciano and Ludwig already there?” 

“Yes.  Last time I saw them, Lutz was buying Feli an orange.”  Gilbert chuckled.  “Ludwig is very…interested in seeing this.  He has read all about the customs and history in preparation, so be sure and do something weird to confuse him a little bit.” 

“I know what would surprise everyone,” Antonio said.  “The bull and I can share some churros.” His eyebrows drew together as he pondered the idea.  “I wonder if bulls even like churros.” 

“I do not know how you could try that,” Francis spoke up.  “Your clothes are so tight, there is no way you can slip something inside.”  Antonio darted away from his wandering hand with a wink. 

“All right, you two, enough,” Gilbert sniggered.  “Anyway Antonio, finish up because you need to get going.  They are hungry for you down there.”  He turned to leave. 

“Are you escorting anyone, Gilbert?” Francis asked suddenly.   

Gilbert stopped.  He smiled.  “Well, I’m sort of with Lutz and Feli and you two.  But no, I’m not taking anyone, not really.  It is a lot more fun this way.” 

“You could take your bird,” Antonio offered.

“No, I decided to leave Vögelchen in our room.  I think he will be happier there.”  Gilbert scratched the back of his head.  “The sight of blood upsets him.”  He glanced at his pocket watch.  “I am going on ahead.  Listen, do not be long.” 

“We will follow you in a moment,” Francis said.  Gilbert nodded and closed the door behind him. 

A strange, tranquil silence reigned over the room.  Francis did not know how to describe it.  Excitement, anticipation, and dread hung in the air.  Antonio was an excellent bullfighter and a flawless showman, but even the most skilled of toreadors met with the bull’s horns.  An unbidden image entered Francis’ mind.  Antonio, still, pale, dead, his useless sword lying beside him.  One hand rested on his chest while the other loosely held the _muletta_.  Quickly, he forced it out of his mind.  Thinking about such possibilities was tempting fate, and his lover did not need any bad omens.  Antonio took enough risks with this odd art form.

“Francisco,” Antonio began, “if you love me, you will soon be very proud of me.”  He took Francis’ hands in his. 

“Antoine, I am already proud of you, and I truly love you very much.”  Leaning forward, he kissed him.  He felt Antonio press something into his palm.  Pulling away, Francis saw the Vargas medallion lying in his hand.  Antonio smiled and gently wrapped Francis’ fingers around it. 

“I want to think that he is looking after you while I am busy.”

Francis nodded, his mouth dry.  He slipped the medallion into his trouser pocket.  “ _Merci beaucoup_ , _mon amour_ ,” he whispered, capturing Antonio’s lips again.  He pulled his body close and took comfort in their chaste intimacy.  This, he realized as their lips brushed against each other, was a goodbye kiss.  It could be the last time they shared such a thing.  Or Antonio could emerge from his battle victorious again, and their celebration would be as joyful as Francis had promised earlier.  Everything hung by the most delicate of threads.  Perhaps that was why a sense of foreboding lingered in the sweetness of their touches. 

Antonio leaned his forehead against Francis’.  “I love you.” 

“I love you.”  He looked into Antonio’s eyes.  “Are you ready?” 

“Yes, I am.”

. 

Confetti and flowers rained down on them.  Antonio raised his arm and waved to his adoring admirers.  The crowds shrieked and cheered for him, loudly calling his name.  Even the soldiers standing in front of the throngs of people to prevent anyone from tackling the toreadors in excitement held respect and awe in their eyes as they watched him pass.  Antonio smiled broadly.  The sun shone down on him, making the _traje de luces_ glitter with every step he took.  His eyes gleamed.  Francis could feel the exhilaration pulsing.  There was something about the struggle, the blood, the heat, the spectacle that appealed to the Spanish mind.  Francis did not completely understand it.  It was too violent for his tastes, even if he appreciated some of the aesthetics and pageantry.  But this crowd was hungry for the fight and the sword.  He could hear it in their thunderous cries.  After all, this was no ordinary bullfight.  Today, their brave Antonio, blade of Grenada, beloved Antonio, would stand in the ring. 

A priest clad in solemn black robes moved in front of them.  Immediately, Antonio and Francis dropped to their knees as the priest lifted his hand to bless Antonio.  Antonio made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingers.  Head bowed, Francis hurriedly whispered a short prayer for Antonio’s safety.  He might not have much faith, but every little bit helped. 

They rose.  “I will see you later, then,” Antonio said, grasping Francis’ forearm tightly.  “Be sure and find a good seat, but stay away from the mayor.  No one likes him.” 

“I will.”

Antonio turned to leave.  Francis’ heart hammered in his chest.

“Antoine!” he shouted.  His fingers wrapped around a delicate chain hidden underneath his shirt.  He pulled it out.  Hanging from the chain was a coin bearing the image of a girl in armor.  Quickly, Francis placed the medallion around Antonio’s neck, tucking it into his shirt’s collar so it could remain hidden.  

“She is not a saint, not officially,” he said hastily.  “But she will protect you.” 

Antonio squeezed his hand.  “Thank you.”  Impulsively, Francis leaned forward and kissed his forehead. 

“ _Au revoir_ , Antoine.  I will see you in a little bit.” 

“ _Adios_ , _mi corazón_.”  With that, Antonio disappeared into the arena.  Francis watched him go. 

“Francis!” Feliciano called.  His arms latched onto his body.  Startled, Francis looked down at him.  Feliciano’s eyes were wide with worry and fear.  Valentino stood beside him, his face equally distressed.  Francis wondered what had upset the young Italians so. 

“Francis,” Feliciano continued, “you should not stay here.  Go back to the hotel.  I will tell Antonio that you had a headache.  It is so hot today.  Antonio will understand.”

Perplexed, Francis pulled out of Feliciano’s tight grip.  “What are you talking about, Feliciano?  Why should I leave?” 

“Arthur is here,” Valentino said. 

Francis blinked.  “Oh?” 

“We saw him the crowd.  There were so many people, but I am sure it was him.” 

“Francis, I have seen that look before, and nothing good ever comes out of it.  Believe me.  Please go,” Feliciano pleaded.

Among the swarm of people entering the arena, Francis saw him.  He was not hard to miss.  Arthur stood still, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Francis coldly.  His clothes were somber and worn compared the people surrounding him.  He wore a long, battered brown coat and a hat.  His eyes blazed underneath the brim.  Francis could not tear his gaze away.  His mind buzzed with questions.  How did Arthur leave England?  How did he find him?  With a sigh, he realized that last bit of information would not have been difficult to find out.  Anyone could ask where Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and his friend were staying at the moment.  The festivities and anticipation for the bullfight would have made everything easier. 

Francis did not bother asking himself why Arthur had come.  He knew that well.

He gave Feliciano and Valentino his most reassuring smile.  “Arthur is not anything to worry about.  I know what he wants, and I will talk to him,” he said.  “I am not afraid.”  Quickly he embraced them.  “Now go, and do not fret.  Everything will be all right.”  Feliciano and Valentino did not look convinced as they tightly wrapped their arms around him.  They remained like that for a moment.  Closing his eyes, Francis focused on the sounds of their breathing and the feel of their clothes.  Feliciano sniffed, probably trying to hold back his tears.  Francis could not blame him; they had always been fond of each other.  Apart from Antonio, Francis was the only remaining part of Feliciano’s life before Lovino died.  Francis gently touched his hair.  Feliciano would be all right; Feliciano would always be all right.  And Valentino was clever.  He and his heiress, whoever she was, would be very happy. 

The embrace ended too quickly.  Smiling broadly again, Francis practically pushed them into the arena.  They disappeared among the people. 

He turned to see Arthur still standing there.  Why had he postponed this?  He knew this day would come.  He had known since that night when he discovered the truth of the cards in his hand.  Yet the idea of Death coming for him, scythe ready to cut him down, had shaken him to the core.  He ran and found joy during his flight.  But nothing lasted forever; his fate waited for him.  Suddenly, Francis felt like laughing.  Who would have guessed that the repressed English sailor he had met that afternoon would impact his life so?  Francis certainly had no idea.  Still, he thought with a silent chuckle, if he had the opportunity, he would do it all over again, changing very little.  For all the arguments, anger, and betrayal between them, Francis could not deny how Arthur stirred something inside him.  Yes, he would do it all again.  Perhaps that was because they were bound by Fate.  They could not part from each other, even if they tried.  One would always find the other.  

Squaring his shoulders, Francis faced Arthur.  He had not lied to Feliciano and Valentino; he was not afraid.

“It’s you,” he said.

Arthur nodded slowly.  “Yes, it’s me.”

Francis tugged on his suit cuffs.  “Tell me, how did you escape your sister’s watchful eye?” 

“I do not want to talk about that,” Arthur replied.  Quickly, he tossed his hat away.  “It is bloody hot here.”  The coat followed.  It crumpled to the ground. 

“You bore the Portuguese heat well.” 

“Well, I was more used to temperate climates then.  There is something them that makes a person do…things he normally would not.”  Their gazes met, and Francis felt his heart nearly break at the sight. 

“Francis,” Arthur began. 

“No,” he cut him off.  “No, never again.”

Arthur closed his eyes.  “Just listen for a moment, will you?  I love you.  God, I hate to say it, but I do.  I love you.” 

_I know._   Francis shook his head.  “You say that, but do you truly what that means?” 

“I love you!” Arthur shouted.  His fists clenched. 

“Do you?  I am not sure.”  Francis shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  “I was an escape for you.  A way out of a life that had made you miserable.  That is all I ever was.  As long as I fulfilled your expectations, you were happy, but when I broke the rules, you grew angry and tried to control me.  I will never be put in a cage, not by anyone, and certainly not by you.” 

“How can you think so little of me?”  Arthur’s voice was low.  “After everything?”  He stepped closer.  Francis held his ground. 

“I was nothing but a plaything for you.  I knew it the moment I saw you.  ‘Why don’t we get a reaction out of the stuffy English lieutenant?’  That was what going through your mind, wasn’t it? And once I stopped being fun, you dropped me.  That is the way it is with you.  It didn’t take much to win me, I am ashamed to say.  A few words, a look from your eyes, and I would have gone to the moon for you.  I might as well have, for all the good it did.”  Arthur gripped his hair.  “I told myself I would not drown, and yet I was already under the water.  And the damnedest thing is that I would do it again.  Sabotaging your arrest, prison, anything.  I would do it.  That is what you have done to me.”

Francis focused on the ground.  “I never played with you, and I never made you do anything.  Everything you did was your own decision.”  He sighed heavily.  “Are you finished?” 

“No, I am not.”  Reaching out, he placed his fingers under Francis’ chin, tilting it up.  Their faces were mere inches from each other.  Up close, Francis could see the puffy bags under Arthur’s eyes and the small red cracks on his lips from biting them.  His fingers were surprisingly gentle.  “Look at me,” he said.  “Listen, let’s put our past behind us.  Forget it all.  We can start new somewhere else.  What do you think about that?”

Francis moved away from his hands.  “I told you no.  There is no going back.  We both have changed too much.  I will not go with you.” 

“What is it you want?” Arthur asked.  “Listen, come with me.  We can leave this place, leave Europe altogether.  We could go to North America.  There is so much free territory; we would just be two immigrants among thousands.  Everything is so widespread out there.  We could be completely isolated with no one to bother us.  Maybe in future we could adopt some children.  There must be a lot of orphans in the American West.  We could have a family.  Francis, there is still time.  We can do this.”

“Why do you persist dreaming?”  Francis turned away from him.  “I have seen the finished work.  It is ugly and beautiful and an utter wreck.”  He smiled cynically.  “It is a masterpiece.” 

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Arthur sneered.  “I ask you again, will you come with me?”

Francis closed his eyes.  “I tell you again that I will not.”  There was nothing more he could say.  “I am leaving.”  He began to walk away.  Instantly, Arthur grabbed his arm.  The movement surprised him, and he whirled around.  Arthur’s green eyes burned with anger and jealousy.  Francis refused to quake at his intense stare.  With a quick jerk, he wrenched his arm free, but he did not step back.

“You are going back to him, aren’t you?  That matador.”  He leaned closer.  “I will not let you go.  You are coming back with me.”  He reached forward.  Francis moved out of the way. 

“For the last time, I will never go with you.  Free I was born, and free I will die.”  He inhaled deeply, relishing the rush of breath in his lungs.  “You will never hold me again.”

His words struck Arthur to the core.  Shock, heartbreak, and fury flashed across his face.  Francis refused to look away.  Arthur looked like a lightening storm, dangerous, wild, and unstable but so magnetic and lovely from a safe distance.  Francis stood too close.  It was easy, he supposed, to watch from a secure seat, but he was never one to simply observe.  How could a person truly experience life just by watching events unfold?  No, he wanted to be onstage, to be in the center of the ring, to personally know life’s joys and sorrows.   And he had.  He had known grief, love, passion, anger, fear, and peace.  He had run the gamut of human emotions.  Now, the fate their cards had set out awaited them.  They had delayed long enough. 

Slowly, Arthur drew a knife from his pocket.  Francis watched the blade glint in the sun.  “Francis,” Arthur said, “for the last time, come with me.” 

“You have my answer.  Kill me or let me pass!” 

The crowds inside the arena cheered.  

“You think it is that easy?”  Arthur stared at him incredulously.  His face twisted.  “I gave up everything for you!” 

“It does not matter anymore,” Francis said, shaking his head.  “ _C’est fini._ ”  He turned towards him.  “ _C’est fini_!”

“Damn you, then!” Arthur shouted. 

He charged forward.  The blade scraped against rib bone.  Francis gasped.  Warm liquid spilled onto Arthur’s hand.  His heart pounded in his chest.  Tears stung his vision.  Francis’ blue eyes widened and focused on Arthur’s face.  They gazed at each other, unable to speak or move.  Slowly, Francis’ eyes closed.  His head fell back.  His body went limp. 

“Victory!  Victory!” the crowd shouted. 

With a harsh cry, Arthur flung the knife as far as he could throw it.  He lowered the two of them to the ground, cradling Francis’ body tightly.  His mind reeled in shock.  He could think of nothing else except Francis’ weight in his arms.  Francis, who he had often held so many times before, Francis who had flirted with him, embraced him, danced with him, kissed him.  His Francis who he had loved and hated with all his soul.  What had he done?  It was not supposed to be like this; it was never supposed to be like this.  

Gently, he laid Francis down.  His golden hair fanned out around his head.  His face was smooth, relaxed, calm, like a marble effigy in a tomb.  With careful hands, he opened Francis’ waistcoat.  Red blood blossomed against the white shirt.  Arthur’s throat tightened painfully at the sight.  He gripped Francis’ hand.  It was still warm. 

He heard the sound of running.  Someone screamed.  Looking up, he saw a small group staring at him in horror.  In the bright light of the sun, he spied the matador, his suit gleaming gold.  He stood frozen, his eyes full of sorrow and pain, as if a dozen old wounds had suddenly been ripped open. 

Cautiously, the constable approached him.  Arthur licked his lips. 

“I pray you in your letters,” he began, the words coming from a strange place in his memory, “when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.  Then you must speak of one that lov’d not wisely but too well…”  

He laid his head on Francis’ still chest.  

“Ah, Francis, I adore you.” 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote the inestimable Bugs Bunny, “Well, what did you expect in an opera? A happy ending?”
> 
> Now, to answer a few questions I set up. Arthur’s ship’s name is a slight allusion to the Abraham Lincoln from the opera, Madame Butterfly. Obviously, a British ship in the late 1870s would not be named after a recent American president, but the HMS Lincoln would be a little more plausible. (Oddly enough, there are four British vessels by that name, the oldest one dating to the late 1600s.) Francis’ song about Antonio and Lovino in Act II is a little twist on “Di Madride Noi Siam Mattadori” from Verdi’s La traviata. Also, Arthur’s speech at the end of Act IV is from Shakespeare’s Othello, which Verdi turned into an opera in 1887.
> 
> Antonio prays to a number of saints before his bullfight (as is customary for matadors), including St. Anthony and St. Francis of Assisi, his and Francis’ patron saints respectively, as well as St. James, the patron saint of Spain. In 1880, Joan of Arc was not a saint yet, but her popularity had dramatically risen since the French defeat in the Franco-Prussian War.
> 
> I want to thank my readers and those who left feedback. It means a lot to me that you took the time to read this little tale of woe. Shivvy, dear Shivvy, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this, since FrUK and Frain are two of your OTPs and Carmen your favorite opera. You are the best!


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